


Jeeves and the Missing Manuscript

by brief_serendipity



Category: Jeeves & Wooster
Genre: Anal Sex, Drama, F/M, Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brief_serendipity/pseuds/brief_serendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bertie meets a young Agatha Christie and hits it off with her at a garden party. She even offers to let him read and comment on her latest manuscript, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, before she posts it to her publisher. Of course, mayhem ensues when the manuscript is stolen and Jeeves and Bertie must find and return it to the rightful owner. Mix in a dash of danger, anger, angst, and unrequited feeling, and it's the perfect storm for 'certain whatsits' to come to light.</p><p>Rating is for later chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Transferring this over from the "Indeed, Sir" community, so if it looks familiar, that's why. Finally got an AO3 account. Jeeves, Bertie, and all characters associated with their idyllic world belong to P.G. Wodehouse. Mrs. Christie belongs to herself.

“But what are we to do re: 'The Situation of Mrs. Christie and Her Manuscript', Jeeves?” I asked, shivering even as I lifted one foot, then the other, into a basin of steaming water. “I hardly think: ‘Sorry, Agatha, old fruit, but I lost the thing whilst fending off a rabid Byng and hound down by Ginny's Lake.’ will suffice.”

The gentlest of coughs, as a sheep upon a dale. “Assuredly not, sir. However, I believe you mean: ‘A Byng and rabid hound’.”

“I bally well meant what I said, Jeeves!” I huffed. “Stiffy was positively foaming at the mouth when I told her who that manuscript belonged to. Lucky the old girl wasn’t in a masticating mood.” I prodded delicately at the bandage encasing a sizable portion of the young master's calf. A speckling of red dotted the outside. “Rather a shame Bartholomew wasn’t of a similar disposition.”

Jeeves’ eyebrow rose a millimeter as he adjusted a blanket around my shoulders with unnecessary attention. “The injury is an unfortunate one, sir, but we must console ourselves in the knowledge that the animal has a discerning eye when choosing its particular targets.”

I snapped my head up, but the powerful glare of Woosterly whatsit was wasted on the back of my man’s head as he shimmered away to fill a tumbler with the good old whiskey and soda. “Yes. Remarkable, Jeeves. I thought, perhaps, that my plaid trousers might be salvageable. You being the supposed _paragon_ that you are," I added, and I meant it to sting.

The ebony brow crept a molecule higher as he handed me the drink, and I almost felt sorry for lashing out at him when it hadn't been his fault. 'Almost' is a far cry from 'certainly', though. “I regret that no thread in my sewing kit is of a suitable shade with which to mend the garment, sir. If you would like me to replace it with something more appropriate to the season, however, I would be only too happy to contact Mr. Chesterton at the earliest possible–”

“Dash it, Jeeves! I told you I don’t want a new set of gray trousers, and that’s the end of it!”

“Very good, sir,” he said in that soupy way of his that rather screams: ‘And kindly go and boil your head, sir. If it’s not too much trouble, sir. In fact, I should be happy to heat the pot, sir. If you would step this way, sir.’ Amazing what the man can convey in just three words, but then, that’s why he’s a marvel.

“Let us focus on what’s important, Jeeves: Mrs. Christie’s manuscript. Stiffy’s sunk her claws into it and means to keep hold until she’s run it round her friends and half the countryside. I mean to say, that’s just not cricket! We can’t expect Mrs. Christie to take well to her hard work tossed about like a dinner roll at the Drones. I’m of the mind to share and share alike with a good book, but it should be a published one, what?”

“Indeed, sir.”

Hold on just a moment.

Oh, dash it all! I’ve done it again. Some hundreds of words in and you haven’t the slightest idea what I’m babbling about. Well, I suppose I should start more toward the beginning. In fact, Jeeves has just assured me that this would be the wisest course of action, and Jeeves tends to know best - especially in matters of a more delicate nature. Of course, as this particular work is unlikely to be amongst my published volumes, I’m not sure it matters all that much.

But, well, an author chappie has to write to an audience, imaginary as they might be. At least I hope they remain imaginary. I wouldn’t care for the sort of attention this particular tale would bring down on yours truly. Jeeves, as well, could do without, you know? He’s a secretive chap to begin with, and this story does a bit of outing of his more intimate thoughts, desires, and whatsits, not to mention my own. That happened later, though.

I suppose I should begin again, then. You see, it all started with a telegram.


	2. Chapter 1

“A telegram has just arrived for you, sir,” Jeeves announced, oiling into the bathroom with his usual aplomb one sunny day in late May. I started with all the grace of cat whose tail has just come under assault by a child’s shoe. I had been engrossed in tugging at bits of the Wooster corpus that it wouldn’t do to discuss in company, polite or otherwise, and I must admit it had become rather a bad habit of late, though I couldn’t say why. Jeeves would help me out of my pajamas, bung me into the tub, and then biff himself off to do whatever it is he does when I’m not looking. As soon as he left the room, and after the requisite four or five squeaks of the good old rubber d., my hand delved beneath the surface to... Well, I’m sure you can guess what a healthy young gentleman’s hands do below the surface of the bathwater when they aren’t preoccu-whatsit with resting comfortably against his chest or running a loofah around.

“Ahah! Yes, Jeeves, well you had better read it, then,” I replied, knowing that the aforementioned rubber d. was doing a poor job of hiding my not-inconsiderable problem. Jeeves, paragon that he is, barely twitched a brow at my blushing visage, though I thought I caught the whiff of a Jeevesian smirk of amusement edging ‘round the stolid mien for a fraction of a second.

“Very good, sir,” he intoned with a self-satisfied air as he flipped open the little brown e.

“Must come down to Twing Hall this Saturday. Mummy’s biggest garden party this season. Special guest you will want to meet. Much love. Lady Cynthia Wickhammersley.”

“A guest I’ll want to meet, eh?” I mused, forgetting my embarrassment for the intrigue. “Any idea who that might be, Jeeves?”

He coughed politely, though how the man manages to do anything impolitely is the Devil’s own guess. “I can only assume the honored guest would be a Mrs. Agatha Christie of Berkshire, sir. The famed authoress and wife of Colonel Arch–”

“Agatha Christie’s going to Lady Wickhammersley’s garden party?” I exclaimed, fairly leaping out of the tub.

“Sir.” Jeeves averted his eyes, a hint of rouge dusting his cheeks, though I took only a cursory note of it as I began to pace across the slippery bathroom tiles.

“I say, Jeeves!” I I-sayed him. “This is wonderful news. No, it’s absolutely topping! No, marvelous! Better yet, the real tobasco!”

“As you say, sir,” he agreed. “But if you would like to return to your ablutions, or perhaps secure a towel about your–”

“I mean, do you know who Agatha Christie is, Jeeves?” I didn’t pause long enough for him to respond. “Well, of course you do. Who doesn’t? Only just finished _The Secret of Chimneys_ the other day. I can’t wait! Jeeves, you will pack, and we will drive to Twing Hall directly!” I spun on my heel to point him toward the bedroom, but the water collecting about the floor provided a bit more dramatic oomph to the turn than I was expecting.

I do believe it was the first time I ever heard Jeeves squeak – not the man himself, you understand, Jeeves being above such things as squeaking, but his shoes.

His arms wrapped around me in less than a second, preventing the young master’s head from making an intimate acquaintance of the y.m.’s floor. I stared up at him as his eyebrows jumped to an alarming height. If it wasn’t bad enough that Jeeves was now hugging my naked _corpus_ , hugging my half-aroused n. c. certainly took the chocolate-covered confectionary.

“Are you unharmed, sir?” There was a thingness in his voice I might have called ‘flustered’ were it any other person.

“Yes,” I squeaked, as we Woosters are more prone to mice-like utterances than Jeeveses.

We stood in silence for five seconds as I willed myself to sink into the tiles, and my man studiously ignored the fact that I was no longer half-aroused, but rather in a more embarrassing way, if you can imagine it. I mean, what could a chap expect, though, with the sudden application of woolen pinstripes to person?

“Well,” I ventured. “Well,” I continued when this appeared insufficient. “Well, perhaps I should finish with the bath, Jeeves.”

“Indeed, sir,” he agreed, disengaging himself as I made my way into the tub once more. “If it is not too bold to question your instructions, sir,” he added as he hovered by the door – I noticed that he was now quite wet, which only served to exacerbate my current predicament for some indefinable reason. “I believe a telegram responding in the affirmative to Lady Cynthia’s invitation would be a more appropriate action to take at the present.”

“Why’s that, Jeeves?”

“It is Tuesday, sir.”

“Ah... I see your point. Wouldn’t want to wear out the welcome before the big day.”

“I would not phrase it precisely so, sir, but the sentiment is sound given our previous sojourns to similar country estates.”

“Right, well, see to it, Jeeves,” I directed with a quick wave. “Or... hold on just a tick. How on earth did you know Agatha Christie was attending Lady Wickhammersley’s garden party?”

Another regal cough, though this might have been to cover the squeal of his shoes as he shifted slightly. “The head falconer at the Wickhammersley manor is a childhood acquaintance, sir.”

“I didn’t know the Wickhammersleys had a falconer... or falcons, come to that,” I interrupted. Cynthia had never mentioned it at any rate.

“Yes, sir. I am given to understand Lord Wickhammersley turned to the sport with great fervor after Lady Wickhammersley restricted his access to the family funds on account of his Lordship's gambling habit. As to your question, a maid overheard Lady Wickhammersley making the arrangements for Mrs. Christie’s arrival. It has been the talk of the servant’s hall ever since.”

“And this falconer chappie decided to drop you a line, eh?”

“Mr. Chilcott is aware that I have a great fondness for literature, sir.” He shifted again, which had the effect of reminding me why I had tried to shoo him away earlier.

“Er... yes, well that’s all quite interesting, but off you go, Jeeves. Send the telegram, then make the necessary arrangements for the drive down to Twing Hall after lunch on Friday.”

“Of course, sir.” He bowed slightly and oiled away with only the tiniest whine of shoe on wet tile.

My ducky stared at me as I returned to my bath and other... matters of interest. “What are you looking at?” I demanded before turning his suddenly-accusatory yellow face away.

Perhaps I needed to get out more. Yes, a lack of exercise explained my excess energy in the morning. A ramble around the countryside with the inimitable Mrs. Christie would be just the ticket.


	3. Chapter 2

The rest of the week ambled along, taking its time about the remainder of Tuesday, reconsidering Wednesday more than once, meandering past Thursday, and finally arriving on Friday at full snail’s tilt. Tuesday morning’s... incident did not repeat itself, though I did sense a something-or-other about Jeeves as he ushered me into the bath each day. He tended to linger, I think, longer than was his wont. Thursday I had to actually dismiss the man so that I could take care of a certain issue that had arisen as I’d watched him watching me.

In any case, I’d been down to the Drones, as well, and was delighted to learn that Bingo, Tuppy, and Stinker would be at Lady Wickhammersley's party with their respective beazels. I asked after Gussie, but no one had heard from him in a dragon’s age. No doubt he was off Fink-Nottling in the fens and briars of England, pursuing some rare specimen of newt with the youngest of the Stoker brood in tow. I endeavored to stop thinking about Gussie after that given that the idea of a girl – even one with so lovely a profile as Ms. Emerald Stoker – Fink-Nottling anywhere rather puts a chap off his lunch.

I drummed my fingers impatiently across the piano’s lid, tossing back the rest of a w. and s., and glancing at the clock every ten seconds or so just to make sure the little chap was pressing forward at the appropriate pace. I had finished re-reading my collection of Christie novels and short stories some time ago, having consumed them one after the other whilst not taking in the requisite number of social hours at my club.

“Perhaps if you were to play the piano, sir, it might alleviate some of your agitation,” came Jeeves’ voice from my right side.

Let me tell you, I nearly put a dent in the ceiling as I jumped and twisted around in midair, the tumbler in my hand making a bid for freedom in the direction of the Chesterfield. I ignored the resultant shatter and instead focused on my man. He blinked at me, a silver salver containing a replacement w. and s. held in front of him.

“Good Lord, Jeeves!” I cried. “Stop that!”

One eyebrow tilted just so. “Sir?”

Eyebrow or not, I wasn’t going to let the chap off that easy. “The shimmering, the oozing, the oiling, Jeeves! You’re liable to give the young master a heart attack at the tender age of twenty!”

A sheep coughed somewhere on a nearby hillside, alerting its fellows to a particularly recalcitrant blade of grass. “Twenty-five, sir.”

I glared. “I was rounding down, Jeeves.”

“As you say, sir.”

“Anyway, it’s to stop right this moment. From now until we leave there shall be no biffing about silently by anyone in the Wooster abode. You are to clomp, Jeeves.”

The slight Jeevesian air of amusement vanished in the space of a blink, replaced by a bristling of the valeting aura. “I do apologize, sir. It was not my intention to startle you. Perhaps if I announced my presence upon entering the room, clomping” – he said the word as one might utter a curse against kith and kin – “would not be necessary.”

Well, he had a point. I let the shoulders relax a bit and drew in a deep breath to calm the nerves. “Very well, Jeeves, but make sure you do so. Now, are we fully prepared to leave after lunch?”

“Of course, sir,” he said, returning to his favored neutral tone. “I took the liberty of filling the car’s tank this morning before you awoke. All that remains is to load the luggage, which I shall attend to directly.”

“Talking of luggage, Jeeves,” I said, finally plucking the drink from the salver, “you’ll have packed my plaid trousers as I requested?”

“What plaid trousers would those be, sir?” he asked with such an air of innocent curiosity that I might actually have believed he’d forgotten about them if I didn’t know my Jeeveses.

“You know very well which plaid trousers those would be, Jeeves. They’re the ones your eyes watered at the sight of when I brought them home the other day. They are quite striking, I grant you, but Bingo has assured me they’re absolutely _the_ fashion for the young gent heading out to the country these days.”

“Was Mr. Little perhaps referring to the Scottish countryside, sir, where such a tartan design might find itself in more suitable company?”

“You approve of wearing plaid up in Scotland, Jeeves?” I asked, mirroring his raised brow. “That’s very progressive of you.”

“Merely speculation on my part, sir,” he returned. “While a noble race, the Scots do hold particularly abstruse sensibilities in matters of dress. It may be traced to their Gaelic roots-”

“Yes, well, speculate in the direction of the luggage, Jeeves,” I ordered, waving my free hand toward the bedroom. “I should like my plaid trousers to accompany us to Twing Hall.”

“Would that be wise, sir?” my man pressed in his most persuasive lilt. “We would not wish for your outfit to clash with the color scheme of Lady Wickhammersley’s garden.”

I almost gave in. Almost. But we Woosters are men of iron will, and while I’m the first chap to grovel, beg, and cringe before my man, I most certainly will not raise the white flag on matters sartorial without a fight. I told him from the first: I’m not the sort of chap who becomes a slave to his valet, no matter how marvelous said v. might be. “You may pack the trousers or you may clomp, Jeeves. Far be it from me to pick which, but you will do one.”

The stuffed frog expression came into full effect, and I quickly gulped down the rest of my w. and s. to fortify my spirits against the waves of Jeevesian displeasure lashing in my direction.

“Very good, sir. If you would sit down on the piano bench, sir.”

Of all the requests he might have made at that point, this one was the least expected. I might have guessed something more along the lines of: ‘Stuff it, sir.’, ‘Says you, sir.’, or – perhaps most unlikely, but still a possibility – ‘I would advise you, sir, to engage in a perambulation about the metropolis in search of the services of a female of ill repute who also happens to be a blood relation for such a period of time as might be required for me to find a suitable replacement valet.’

“I don’t feel like playing, Jeeves, really,” I put forth tentatively.

“Merely a precaution until I am able to remove the glass, sir.” He indicated my shattered tumbler with a flick of his eyes.

“Ah... right. Well.” I planted the Wooster _corpus_ upon the b. in question and drew my legs up. It was all quite nostalgic. I could remember sitting as such in various cupboards in my youth whilst avoiding the fire and fangs of my nephew-crushing aunts. “This is all quite nostalgic, Jee–”

I looked up, but he was gone. “Jeeves?”

“I am now entering the room, sir,” he announced, stepping in from the kitchen with a dustpan and broom.

I smiled. Mrs. Christie would get to see my plaid trousers.


	4. Chapter 3

The drive down to Twing Hall was a chilly one, though not for the day. It was as bright and warm as any spring afternoon ought to be. The company on the other hand leant toward the sub-zero regions. I tried to strike up a conversation with Jeeves as I directed the two-seater across hill and dale, but I felt rather like that Oriental chappie who spent his life chipping away at the base of some mythical mountain. Only in this case, the mountain took the form of a Jeevesian glacier of wounded feudal spirit. I gave up after an hour of him yes-sirring and no-sirring me at intervals and contented myself with humming.

I suspect, even with the trouser incident taken into account, the ride would not have been quite so frigid had it not been for my double-checking that the t.’s in question had actually found their way into my luggage. It’s not that I don’t trust my man, you understand. It’s just that he’s a bit hard-headed when he doesn’t get his way, and certain ‘inappropriate’ itemries of clothing have a tendency to disappear under such circs. He’d gone positively porcupine on me when I’d asked about it before he went down to bung the l. into the car, insisting that the trousers were packed. In turn, I’d insisted he show me. This continued back and forth until I’d put the Wooster foot down, grabbing for the larger valise and pawing through the contents. Imagine my chagrin when, having strewn the better part of my wardrobe about the floor, Jeeves popped open the smaller one and produced my trousers.

We’d been on rocky shoals since, but I’d hoped the fresh air would lighten his spirits. I’d apologized more than once, but it seemed even Bertram’s soulful gaze of remorse could not move the man when he was determined to be out of sorts.

Refolding and packing to Jeeves’ satisfaction had taken some time, so it was more than an hour later than expected that we pulled up in front of Twing Hall. I stepped out and was greeted by the butler, Woolwine, as Jeeves drove the car around back.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster,” the aged servant greeted with a creaking bow. “The guests have gathered in the music room. If you would follow me?”

Soon enough, I arrived among my peers with a flurry of handshakes, ‘what ho’s, and ‘how do you do’s. Tuppy and Angela were there, studiously ignoring each other from opposite sides of the room, Stiffy had a firm hold on Stinker to stop him knocking over any of the expensive-looking whatsits dotting the place here and there, and Mr. and Mrs. Bingo sat in the corner exchanging faces filled with enough sop to curdle milk. Also in attendance were the recently-wed Lord and Lady Sidcup, Lord and Lady Wickhammersley, Cynthia, and a pair of youngish birds who were introduced as the brothers Pumphrey-Devereux of Herefordshire.

Before I could begin to socialize, however, Lady Wickhammersley descended, sinking her claws into my arm and hauling me over to the piano.

“Mr. Wooster, how very nice to see you again,” she gushed in a voice that would have put all but the most oblivious of men on edge.

“What ho, Lady Wickhammersley!” I replied. “Erm... shall I play something for–”

“Mr. Wooster, you’ve known Cynthia for several years now.”

“Oh, yes.” I nodded my agreement. “Lovely girl, you know?”

“Yes,” Lady Wickhammersley purred, “I know.”

Barely a minute in, and already I was feeling like a wounded gazelle faced with a cheetah who had been on a reducing diet for three weeks. If not for the company, I’m certain Lady Wickhammersley would have been licking her lips.

“So, er... was that all?” I ventured. “I should like to get to know those two Pumphrey-Devereux fellows. I didn’t know anyone still lived out in Herefordshire. Well, except for those chaps who make that topping cider. Pumphrey... has a whiff of the Welsh about it, what? And the name Devereux, hmm? They aren’t related to that viscount chap who owns Hampton Court, are they? Uncle Willoughby took me out there once when I was still nipping about in short trousers. Lord Riley or Randall Devereux, I think. Something beginning with an ‘R’. Jeeves would know. I’ll ask him when he–”

“Mr. Wooster,” Lady Wickhammersley interrupted, “you were engaged to Cynthia for a brief time, do you recall?”

“Vividly.” It had been a harrowing time in this Wooster’s life involving rabbits – not of the ‘specific dream’ variety – a vengeful Rupert Steggles, and the loss of a perfectly spiffing pair of chartreuse socks. I hadn’t been able to look at an apple turnover the same way since.

“I telephoned your aunt, Agatha Gregson, after Cynthia told me she’d invited you down, and imagine my surprise to learn that you’re still unmarried.”

The cheetah was closing in. “Hah... yes. Well, you know how these girls can be: keen as a bee upon a flower one moment, and stinging a chap like a hornet the next.”

“Indeed.” I shivered as she petted my arm. “Which is why I’m going to make this easy for you. Agatha and I have agreed. It’s not a perfect match – you’re both a bit silly – but neither you nor Cynthia are getting any younger, Mr. Wooster. You will propose to Cynthia this weekend, she will accept, and we can begin making the arrangements for your wedding by the end of the season.”

“I say! Doesn’t a chap get a choice in the matter? Not to say that Cynthia isn’t an absolutely corking girl, but I didn’t drive down here to marry her... or anyone for that matter.”

“Your aunt said you might be reluctant,” Lady Wickhammersley acknowledged.

I nodded smartly. “Quite right!”

“In that case, I think it best that you leave directly, Mr. Wooster.”

“What?” I mean to say, what? Tossing a chap out on his ear just because he won’t propose? “But... but what about Agatha Christie?”

“I suppose you might meet her somewhere else. Perhaps the next time I invite her. Oh, but that’s silly! Why ever would you want to come down again when you’ve no interest in my daughter?”

“You’re _blackmailing_ me into proposing to Cynthia?” I sputtered.

“I prefer to think of it as providing adequate incentive for you to do the right thing, Mr. Wooster.” She flashed her teeth at me in what could only be called a smile in the most academic sense before disengaging and beginning to slink away. “I expect to hear the good news by this evening.”

“What good news is that, Bertie?” I started at Cynthia’s voice, whacking the piano with the back of my hand and sending a discordant whatsit crashing through the room at large. I winced as everyone turned their attention to me. At least no glasses had been thrown this time.

“Were you going to play something, Bertie,” Angela demanded. “Or just make that awful racket?”

“How could you tell the difference?” Stiffy rejoined.

“Cynthia, old fruit,” I said, drawing myself up, and ignoring the sniggers of amusement that followed in the wake of Stiffy’s vicious verbal assault upon my musical prowess, “would you care to accompany me in a duet?”

“I’d love to!” she assented, and we bunged ourselves down on the bench to work out which song we wanted. Cynthia’s a fine beazel, as I’ve said, but her musical selection was a bit on the stuffy side of old-fashioned. Still, a man must make cocktails with the liquor he’s given, what?

We plucked out a decent martini of song with _Mi-a-ou_ from Fauré’s _Dolly Suite_ , me taking the Secondo part, and Cynthia putting the songbirds to shame on Primo. When all was said and done, a hush lasted for some three seconds before Madeline burst into applause, followed by the rest of the room.

“Oh, you two are just lovely together,” she lisped. “Weren’t they Roderick?”

“A fair rendition,” he allowed, eyeing me with no little distaste. Spode’s sneer only held my interest for a moment, though, as my searching gaze fell upon Jeeves. The man looked almost pleased. At the very least, he’d softened around the edges. It filled the young master’s heart with a joie de vivre to see his man finally beginning to defrost. It also warmed the y. m.’s cockles, but picturing Aunt Agatha in the all-together quickly cooled the cockles to a more company-appropriate temperature.

“That was excellent, Cynthia,” I said, focusing my attention upon a less troublesome subject while I chided myself for this un-whatsit-able reaction to the sight of my valet. “Keep the keys warm, and I’ll be back before you can say tinkerty tonk!”

She laughed and shooed me away before starting on a solo. It was something in D major I didn’t recognize, but it sounded delightfully whimsical all the same.

“What ho, Jeeves!” I waved as I approached. “What did you think?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” he began, the closest thing to a smile to ever touch the man’s lips peeking out for a moment. Jeeves does enjoy his classics, you understand. “A most admirable performance.” Then, as if recalling that we were not on speaking terms, his shoulders stiffened, and the stuffed frog mask slid down. “Did you require my assistance, sir?”

“More than ever, Jeeves.” I tugged him to one side and explained the sitch re: Cynthia and Lady Wickhammersley in a whisper. “So, you see, she’s threatening to chuck me out unless I propose to Cynthia today!” I finished. “What to do, Jeeves? That is the question the Bard should’ve been asking. I may never get another opportunity to meet Mrs. Christie, but marrying Cynthia...” I shuddered to think.

“You would, no doubt, find some measure of kinship with Lady Cynthia through your shared passion for the piano, sir,” he replied unhelpfully.

“Lady Wickhammersley’s wants me to be Cynthia’s husband, not her blasted concert partner,” I growled. “Think, Jeeves! I’m begging you. I’ll... I promise not to wear the plaid trousers tomorrow if you can think of something.”

One Jeevesian brow crept upward in interest. “A thought _does_ occur, sir.”

“It does, Jeeves?” I asked, leaning in like an eager pup.

“Yes, sir, but I think, perhaps, further discussion would best be continued in a more secluded location and with Lady Cynthia’s involvement.”

“ _With_ Lady Cynthia, Jeeves?” I tutted. “My good man, Lady Cynthia is the _last_ person we want to involve in this scheme of yours.”

The most respectful of coughs. “Forgive me for disagreeing, sir, but the lady’s participation in this particular scheme, as you call it, is of paramount importance.”

“Well, all right,” I relented. “We shall meet you in half an hour in the garden by the statue of the Greek beazel with the helmet and bow.”

“Very good, sir.”

\--- --- ---

Extricating myself and Cynthia from the music room proved easier than expected under the hawk-eyed gaze of Lady Wickhammersley. I suppose she imagined my inviting her daughter for an ankle about the gardens ran deeper than what it was. I’m never one to correct a lady’s presumptions, of course.

Jeeves was waiting for us, and as soon as we’d settled ourselves on a bench, he proceeded to tell Cynthia exactly what I’d told him.

“Jeeves!” I hissed once he’d finished.

“Sir.” Not even a hint of remorse, the fiend.

“Oh, Bertie, I am sorry,” Cynthia added for good measure.

“What?” I blinked at her. “You mean you don’t want to marry me?”

She patted my hand and smiled apologetically. “I’m very fond of you, Bertie, but Mummy’s just trying to throw you at me so I’ll give up on Geo.”

“Geo?”

“Mr. George Chilcott, sir,” Jeeves supplied, an air of satisfaction surrounding his person, “Lord Wickhammersley’s falconer.”

“Ah! Your childhood friend! So, you already knew Cynthia’s affections were engaged elsewhere, as it were.”

“Precisely, sir.”

“He’s a specific dream rabbit, Bertie,” Cynthia explained, eyes going gooey.

“Yes, well. Quite.” Having never met the man, I hadn’t much to base an opinion on, but the fact that he had captured Cynthia’s heart did place him in high standing in this Wooster’s estimation.

“Bertie, you sound as if you’re horrified at the mere _thought_ of romance.” The Code of the Woosters dictated that I remain silent on that point, and I adhered as only Bertram can to said C. of the W.’s. Cynthia shook her head. “You know, not all women are Madeline Bassetts.”

“No, indeed,” I agreed readily. “Some are Honoria Glossops and Florence Crayes.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re edging toward the far end of your twenties, Bertie, I’m not sure you can afford to be so picky for much longer.”

“Why is everyone so dashed concerned about my age all of the sudden?” I demanded. “Was there a breaking news report I missed? Some announcement in the society pages about the fact that Bertram Wilberforce Wooster is aging like any other chap whose biological clock runs the right way ‘round? Hmm?”

“Sir,” Jeeves interjected softly, “if we might return to the matter at hand?”

I crossed my arms in a huff and turned to look up at him. “Well, get on with it, Jeeves. What’s this wheeze of yours?”

“It occurs to me that you need only carry on with the pretense of an engagement for the duration of our stay in order to meet with Mrs. Christie, sir. If Lady Cynthia is amenable, you might announce your intention to marry at dinner this evening and break the engagement before departing on Monday.”

“You mean to say we pull the wool over Lady Wickhammersley’s eyes for the weekend, then pretend we’ve parted brass rags before a date for the forthcoming nuptials can be set? That’s brilliant, Jeeves! What do you say, old fruit?” I directed the last bit at Cynthia.

“I suppose it would put Mummy off for a bit,” she said. “Just so long as you’re all right with me sneaking away to meet Geo during the party... _darling_.”

“I can think of no better way for you to spend your time, _my dear_ ,” I agreed, a grin spreading across my map to mirror her own. “Ah, Jeeves, you’ve done it again. You are simply a marvel!”

The Jeevesian smirk gave a quick wave and shout as he replied, “Thank you, sir.”


	5. Chapter 4

I announced my ‘engagement’ to Cynthia that evening to a rousing chorus of congratulations. Madeline Spode née Bassett expressed her sincerest hopes that I would finally be able to move past my love for her. She understood, she said, that mine was a gentle soul that would require the kind ministrations of a faithful wife to overcome the harrowing trials of heartbreak, and look upon the world as it was meant: With flowers obscuring one’s glasses, or some other rot. The beazel always manages to bring flowers into the conversation. But at least this go around, I didn’t have to endure talk of the stars being God’s daisy-chain.

Throughout the dinner, Cynthia and I exchanged knowing smiles, which everyone else took to be that strange something-or-other couples have – a sort of private joke between the pair of them. I shot a few knowing-smiles in Jeeves’ direction, as well, until he leaned down under the pretence of refilling my glass.

“Sir,” he muttered, breath tickling my ear, “you may wish to convey some minor discomfort in the present situation or Lady Wickhammersley will become suspicious. Having indicated your strong opposition to contracting a matrimonial alliance with Lady Cynthia, such reluctance is only to be expected.”

Having his mouth that close to my face did something inexplicable to this Wooster’s _corpus_. I shivered, though in a decidedly different manner from when Lady Wickhammersley had petted me in the music room. My heart sped up, my lungs decided that fully inflating was a rather silly notion, and gooseflesh rose along my arms even as a warmth crept up my neck and flushed my cheeks.

“I-I think I know how a chap who’s engaged against his will should act, Jeeves,” I managed, downing the contents of my water goblet as soon as he’d biffed off to the other end of the table to refresh Stiffy’s drink.

“Are you all right, Bertie?” Richard ‘Sticky’ Pumphrey-Devereux asked from my left side. He was a tall, gangly chap with dark hair and darker eyes whose nose and expression put one in mind of a particularly harried parrot.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” I replied, brushing off his concern.

“He’s just in love, Sticky,” Warren ‘Thumper’ Pumphrey-Devereux, the younger of the pair and a chap graced with the physique of a miniature bull, interjected.

I began to sputter that I was nothing of the sort when I felt a soft hand grasp my own. “Indeed he is,” Cynthia agreed with a titter. “As in love as any man can be! Right, darling?”

“Hmph!” Angela harrumphed from across the table. “I wouldn’t count on a man remaining in love, Cynthia. Shakespeare had it right. Their love is like the moon: fickle and inconsistent.”

“Better than a woman’s love, Bertie,” Tuppy growled back. “About as durable as the goose at Christmas dinner!”

“Oh!” Angela threw down her silverware and shot up, the rest of the table going quiet. “It’s always about food with you, Hildebrand Glossop!”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be if you’d pick a hat that didn’t look like you’d raided the greengrocer’s rubbish bin!”

With a yowl that set the hounds in Bristol to barking, Angela snatched up her wine glass, chucked the contents of said w. g. in Tuppy’s face, and stormed from the room in high dudgeon. Madeline excused herself shortly and ran after her.

“Is it always this exciting outside of Herefordshire?” Thumper wanted to know.

I rubbed at my forehead and sighed the sigh of long-whatsit.

\--- --- ---

Sleep did not come easily that night. Not only was there the excitement of actually meeting Agatha Christie tomorrow, but I was worried about my cousin, Angela. She and Tuppy often get into these little snits, but as far as snits go, this one seemed to have taken on claws, robed itself in garish togs, and started serving coffee in the mornings instead of tea. I was determined to sort the matter out myself, of course, Angela being my favorite cousin. So, to forestall any Jeevesian cogi-something... _cogitating_ on a scheme, I announced my intentions as soon as we were safely within the confines of my allotted room.

He’d raised one brow by a molecule and replied with a dubious, “Very good, sir,” before gliding away to lay out my pajamas.

I tossed and turned, checking the clock at intervals. Light began creeping into the room just after six and, unable to stand it any longer, I pulled myself out of bed and determined to re-re-read one of my Christie novels in the armchair.

Just as I had settled myself with _The Mysterious Affair at Styles_ , there came a tiny click, something I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been keyed up like one of Lord Bittlesham’s horses at the Ascot opening day. The door swung forward silently and Jeeves entered, eyes focused on the tea tray in his hands.

“Jeeves!” I cried.

His head snapped up, and I dare say I heard the china rattle, but that couldn’t have been possible. “Sir?” Genuine surprise suffused his tone – if suffused is the word I want. 

“Do you have some sort of internal Bertram sensor, Jeeves?” I asked, blinking owlishly at him. “How on God’s green E. did you know I was awake?”

There was a pause just long enough for me to suspect that a lie would be forthcoming. “You appeared to be deeply agitated last night, sir,” he explained. A true enough statement given that I’d been twitching worse than a blind mouse whose tail has been threatened with the business end of a carving knife. There had been more than one instance of Jeeves laying hands upon the Wooster _corpus_ to settle me enough for him to undo my buttons. This had only led to further ‘agitation’ of the below-the-belt variety. A jolly embarrassing state to be in when one’s valet is in the way of remaining in the room as one undoes one’s flies. “I surmised that you would have difficulty sleeping and would wish to rise earlier than your customary hour in order to prepare for the singular event of meeting Mrs. Christie.”

“That’s jolly perceptive of you, Jeeves,” I acknowledged. I really was becoming far too suspicious. Even the Jeevesian head must get a bit fuzzed in the ungodly hours of the morning and require a bit of time to string together the most appropriate set of words to avoid exciting the young master further. “Come, come, then, and set the thing down. No need to linger at the entrance.” I motioned to the bedside table.

“I’m afraid I will have to return kitchen, sir,” he replied, remaining rooted to his spot.

“Oh? Why’s that? Forget the milk?”

“I have just remembered that I procured the incorrect variety of tea this morning, sir.” Well, I was dashed, let me tell you. I didn’t think it was possible for the man to procure the incorrect _anything_. “I will return presently with your regular Darjeeling, sir. I do apologize.” And without waiting for a reply, he biffed off.

If I was a man given to superstition, I might have seen the mix-up with the tea for what it was at the time. Well, not _actually_ what it was. What it was, was something altogether different that Jeeves later explained to me. But I might have seen it for what it might have been if it hadn’t been that or the innocent incident which it appeared to be. Does that make sense? It was a rummy sitch. In any case, I should’ve recognized the scene for the ill omen that it might have been but wasn’t actually. In fact, it was a _good_ omen, but I couldn’t have known that at the time. I’m getting off point. Focus, Bertram.

After returning with my tea, Jeeves set himself to the task of laying out my morning suit. He then bunged me into the tub, stepping off before I could even thank him for the assist. Dressing was a painfully awkward affair, though I couldn’t say if the trouble was on my part or Jeeves’. I was feeling more than a little out of sorts, having spent most of the night awake, but I wondered if my man had shared my restlessness. He was as alert and responsive as ever, don’t read me wrong, but there was something jittery about him, and it took him quite a bit longer than usual to straighten me out to our mutual satisfaction. I put it down to anticipation.

Jeeves seems to have whole libraries stored up in his head. The chance to meet with Agatha Christie must have had him positively giddy, though he’d never show it as such.

We trotted down to breakfast at the unreasonably early hour of 8:30 in the ack emma. I was not a little taken aback to find the dining room already full. With the exception of Angela, everyone from last night was present and having at the buffet-style spread with reckless abandon. I spotted Tuppy conversing with Bingo and Cynthia at one end of the table, and made my way toward them, picking up a plate of food and a glass of orange juice along the way.

“What ho, all!” I greeted.

“Hello, dear heart,” Cynthia returned, pulling me over to peck my cheek. I can tell you, _that_ caused a dusting of rouge around the Wooster cheeks, though I knew it was only natural to act as such given the ruse.

“Morning, Bertie,” Bingo acknowledged as Tuppy grunted what might have been a muffled ‘Hullo’ around a sizeable portion of eggs.

“So, Tuppy,” I began after I’d started on my own eggs and b., “you and Angela on the rocks again?”

“On the rocks? Try in the oyster beds offshore without shoes.”

I winced. “That bad, what?”

“I simply told her the truth about her sensibilities with regard to hats. Is that a crime?”

“Certainly, old chap,” Bingo put in. “No woman wants to know your real opinion about her clothes.”

“When did _you_ grow wise to the ways of the world, Bingo?” I asked, bemused by his sudden cynicism.

“Marriage changes a man, Bertie,” he replied. “For the better, of course,” he added with a broad smile as Rosie sat down to join us.

“I’m simply dying to meet Mrs. Christie,” were the first words out of Mrs. Little’s née Bank’s mouth. “I don’t particularly care for the detective genre – much too gory if you ask me – but it’s always a delight to meet a fellow author.”

“I’m a fellow author,” I pointed out, then took a fortifying sip of orange juice after the look she shot me. I certainly didn’t quail – quailing is a sport reserved for my Aunt Dahlia when the foxes are out of season, you see – but I might have shifted myself just a bit closer to Cynthia. Appearances must be kept up for two young lovers, after all.

Conversation revolved around our favorite Christie stories and the merits of other literary genres for the rest of the meal. After that, myself and the rest of the gents grabbed our clubs and headed over to the golf course for a round of nine holes. All of us were well over par by the end of it, but we were all so anxious to get back to Twing Hall, I hardly think the scores were given a first thought, let alone a second.

\--- --- ---

“Is this absolutely necessary, Jeeves?” I demanded as he readjusted my tie for the umpteenth time.

“I was under the impression that you wished to look your best for your initial encounter with Mrs. Christie, sir,” he responded, brushing what surely had to be the world’s tiniest piece of lint from my shoulder.

“Yes. Certainly,” I allowed. “But at this rate, Mrs. Christie will have come and gone by the time I get downstairs!”

“I believe it was the American writer Ralph Waldo Emerson who said ‘patience and fortitude conquer all things’, sir.”

“Well, the Americans may be absolutely corking chaps, but they have no idea what they’re talking about half the time.”

“Very true, sir. However, similar sentiments have been expressed by individuals in England and on the continent. Jean-Jacques Rousseau, a French philosopher, surmised–”

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I interrupted. “I’ve had my fill of philosophy regarding patience for the day.”

“As you say, sir.”

“You are to strike all notions of patience and its virtues from your mind.”

“They are already stricken, sir.”

“Good. Then help me with my jacket, and we shall attend to the garden and our host directly.”

\--- --- ---

Once we reached the garden, Jeeves shimmered away to assist with the drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and I ankled over to where Angela and Stiffy had seated themselves.

“Go away, Bertie,” Angela said before I could toss out the customary ‘what-ho’. “I hate men right now.”

“But Angela, old fruit,” I said, injecting a manly wibble of the lower lip to soften her up, “we’re cousins!”

She sighed. “Yes, but you’re Hildebrand’s friend. I want to be mad at him right now, so go away.”

“But didn’t Tuppy tell you?” I asked, a cunning plan blossoming from the Wooster gray matter.

“Tell me what?” Angela asked.

“That he’s dreadfully sorry about the whole thing,” I relayed. “He’s seen the error of his ways, but he’s just too dashed embarrassed to say anything. You know how Tuppy can be, what?”

“Quite,” she grumbled. “Did he really tell you that, Bertie?”

“Indeed, he did,” I disassembled – or whatever that word is that means you’re lying, but sounds nicer. “If you’d like me to tell him anything in return...?”

She glanced at Stiffy, and they leaned in for a whispered conversation.

“You may tell Hildebrand that... that it was a bit of a silly thing, but that a proper fiancé would stand behind a bad hat.”

“Well, quite,” I agreed. “I doubt even Tuppy could hide a hideous hat by standing in front of it. Thick around the shoulders and waistline Tuppy might be, but thick in the head? Certainly not!”

They both eyed me with a thingness that said they weren’t certain whether they should laugh at me or box me around the ears.

Finally, Stiffy asked, “Where has Cynthia gotten to, Bertie? I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”

“Oh, she’s around here somewhere,” I assured, running my eyes along the hedges and flowerbeds. Quite a few new birds and beazels had joined the festivities since breakfast, but no one I recognized immediately. No doubt Jeeves would be able to provide me with their names, ranks, and several interesting pieces of trivia about them if required. “I think she was going to take a bit of a walk to avoid the rush when Mrs. Chris–”

As if by some divine edict, Woolwine’s quavering voice rose above the chatter in the garden. “Mrs. Agatha Christie.”

\--- --- ---

A crowd swiftly formed around the authoress as Lady Wickhammersley led Mrs. Christie over to a table where Rosie was sitting. I trailed along after them, but didn’t join the queue that formed to shake Mrs. Christie’s hand and gush over her for a moment before Lady Wickhammersley shooed them away.

“Did you require additional libation in order to approach Mrs. Christie, sir?” Jeeves asked oiling up to me with a full glass of champagne. I had been standing, staring at the little table, for some ten minutes, and gladly accepted the new drink.

“No, Jeeves, just waiting for the fanfare to die down, what? I think Cynthia had the right idea about coming later to the party.”

“Indeed, sir.” He offered an eyebrow tilt of consolation. “I believe you may have greater success in gaining an audience with Mrs. Christie if you were to approach her now, sir.”

“Now?” I whipped my head back to the table in time to see Mrs. Christie standing up and directing a scowl in Rosie’s direction. She shrugged off Lady Wickhammersley’s claws, and began striding toward the fountain. I hurried to intercept her.

“What ho, Mrs. Christie!” I called upon approach. She turned to blink at me.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied with what was undoubtedly a very convincing smile to one not trained in the Jeevesian school of false emotion.

“Bit of a tiff with Rosie back there?” I asked, offering her the drink in my hand.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Christie said with something approaching a more genuine reflection of frustration as she took the drink. “I’m afraid you’re correct. Mrs. Little is undoubtedly a fine author in her own field, but she knows very little about mine. It does tend to bother me when someone who has no idea what they’re talking about tries to tell me how to do my job. I have a husband for that sort of thing.”

I wasn’t certain if I was supposed to laugh at this, so I settled for a sympathetic quirk of the lips.

“I’m quite sorry you had to see that, especially when you have me at a disadvantage, Mister...?”

“Wooster,” I supplied. “Please call me Bertie, though. I’m a great fan.”

“Wooster?” She applied a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “That’s so famil...” Her eyes widened. “Bertie Wooster? You’re Bertram Wooster?”

“In the flesh.” I nodded, no small amount of trepidation entering my voice. Could Lady Wickhammersley have warned her about me? Warned her? What about? That was silly. Perhaps she’d heard from one of her friends about me? But to what purpose?

“Oh, Mr. Wooster, this is absolutely marvelous,” Mrs. Christie cried, grabbing my hand and shaking it hard enough to make my head wobble. “I just love your... your... Jeeves!”

She was staring past me now, and I looked around to see Jeeves gliding toward us with a plate of cucumber sandwiches and another glass of champagne for the young master.

“Yes, madam?” he inquired, handing me the glass and presenting the sandwiches to Mrs. Christie.

“ _The_ Mr. Jeeves?” Mrs. Christie shook her head. “I’ve read all of your books and short stories, Mr. Wooster. I simply adore them.”

“R-really?” I asked. “They’re just a bit of nonsense.”

“But I love nonsense, Mr. Wooster,” she rejoined. “Where would the joy in this world come from without a bit of nonsense? Really, I’m quite honored. Could I get your autograph sometime this weekend? I have my copy of _The Inimitable Jeeves_ with me. I was re-reading it on the train ride down in between editing chapters of my manuscript.”

“Well, that is to say... of course!” I nodded, face feeling positively fishy as I gaped at her like a landed haddock.

“If I might be so bold, sir,” Jeeves interjected, “perhaps an exchange of signatures would be in order. Mr. Wooster requested that I pack several of your more recent volumes for our stay at Twing Hall, Mrs. Christie.”

“Please,” she said, waving a hand, “call me Agatha.”

“That would hardly be proper, madam,” Jeeves replied, tone edging toward soupy.

Agatha simply laughed at that. “Oh, gracious! You’re exactly like what I imagined.”

“Bertie, you shouldn’t be stealing all of Mrs. Christie’s attention,” a familiar voice lisped at me. I turned to see Madeline dragging Spode toward us. “Hello, Mrs. Christie,” she continued. “My name is Madeline Spode and this is my dear husband Roderick, 7th Earl of–”

“Lord Spodecup!” Agatha exclaimed, then blanched. “Sidcup! I mean ‘Sidcup’! Oh, I do apologize, my Lord.” She placed a hand over her mouth, but it was not the authoress at whom Spode leveled his fiery gaze. Unconsciously, I moved to place Jeeves between myself and the good Earl, counting on my man’s cool disposition to stave off the worst of the heat.

“Think nothing of it, my dear,” Spode replied after his attempt to destroy the Wooster _corpus_ via ocular incineration had failed. “It is a common enough appellation that I remain unaffected.”

“That’s very kind of you, my Lord. My Lady.” She bowed her head to Madeline.

“Please, Mrs. Christie! Madeline and Roderick,” Madeline insisted. “Roderick has read all of your books, though I fear they’re rather too much for me. I have always wondered if you wouldn’t consider adding a bit of romance to your stories. Or perhaps some more of the ‘poetic justice’ Roderick goes on about. I do love poetry. Have you heard of...”

It was at that point that Bertram ceased listening, the bubbles in my champagne taking on a whole new world of fascination. It was only Jeeves’ gentle cough that drew me back to the land of the living.

“Perhaps, sir,” he said just loud enough for Agatha to hear, but soft enough not to interrupt Madeline’s recitation of some poem she’d written about the nature of butterflies and how they were ‘hearts blown upon the turbulent winds of fate’, “you would like to repair to the sports field? Lord Wickhammersley has instructed his falconer to show off the manor’s finest birds.”

“Falcons?” Agatha cut Madeline off. “I’m terribly sorry, Madeline, but I’ve never seen a falconer at work before. May I accompany you, Mr. Wooster?”

“Of course, Agatha, old fruit.” I presented my arm with a grin as Madeline’s lips drew to a thin line. “And please do call me Bertie.”

“Bertie.” She nodded, and we set off.


	6. Chapter 5

As soon as we’d moved a respectable distance away from Lord and Lady Sidcup, I unleashed my curiosity with the question that had been clawing at the Wooster tum since she’d first mentioned it. “So, Agatha, you said something about a manuscript you were editing?”

“Indeed I did, Bertie,” she replied, inscrutable as any paragon of a manservant.

“Any details you’d care to share?” I pressed with my trademark grin of Woosterly charm. “Inquiring minds wish to know.”

“Inquiring minds can piss off.”

I nearly tripped over my own feet as I exclaimed, “Mrs. Christie!”

“Don’t ‘Mrs. Christie’ me, Bertie,” she returned, rolling her eyes. “You read my novels. Did you really expect me to be an innocent soul who doesn’t pay attention to what the people around her are saying?”

“Well, well, well.” I shook my head in amazement, unable to contain a smirk. “There’s one for Drones: The weekend I met Mrs. Agatha Christie and exchanged not only autographs, but language of the most opprobrious sort!”

“Yes, I _would_ ask you to contain such tales to your club, though. At least I’m acquainted with most of them... after a fashion. You really do write such wonderful stories, Bertie. I feel like I already know half the people here because of them, and they’re all just as colorful as you paint them.”

“Write what you know, that’s this Wooster’s motto,” I said. “Of course, for you, I don’t imagine writing what you know would be very pleasant if you actually know about the sorts of things you write. Murder and whatnot?”

“I think there’s a measure of autobiography in any work,” she replied. “Some are just a bit more honest about it than others. I know the places and I know my characters, so in that sense, I am writing what I know. The characters in my stories just happen to be imaginary. Yours are too fantastic for fiction.”

“They are a bit of an eccentric bunch,” I allowed, a grin trekking across my map. “Still, my man Jeeves always manages to win the day and save us from said e.’s when they become too much. I think we’re straying from the matter at hand, though. Clever of you to put me off.” I wagged a finger at her. “If inquiring minds should ‘piss off’, as you say, what about inquiring Woosters?”

“Well, I _have_ been wanting to get feedback from someone not paying me in one way or another to keep publishing...”

I liked this direction. I steered the conversation more firmly in this d. as the physical form led us toward the sports field.

“More than happy to lend an eye to a chapter or two... might even break out the red ink if you’re inclined to let me have at the thing.”

She folded her arms, the now-empty champagne glass still clutched in one hand. “I feel like I should be putting up more resistance somehow, but you’re terribly persuasive, Mr. Wooster. What’s your secret?”

“Ah, ‘Persuasion’ being the middle name, but spelt as ‘Wilberforce’, you know?” My brows drew together as another thought occurred to me. “I must say, though, you _are_ a brave girl. If I were a famous novelist, I’d be worried about trotting my work out to the country where anyone could snatch it up. I mean to say, it’s not that I don’t trust all the chaps legging it around Lady Wickhammersley’s garden, but there are shady suspects in this world.” It would only occur to me later how perfectly por-whatsit – the thing that means it’s foreshadowing something significant... portentous! Perfectly portentous. – those words had been.

“I’m no more a ‘girl’ than you are a ‘boy’, Bertie,” she chided. “Children can certainly write, but it takes the temperance of adulthood to become an author. I find myself in good company for that title.”

“Well... very kind of you to say, Agatha,” I said, feeling a touch of rose about the cheeks, “but as far as my aunts are concerned, a chap is a ‘boy’ so long as he remains _sans femme_.”

The edges of her lips tugged up to reveal a hint of tooth as she cast a sidelong glance Wooster-ward. “Then, perhaps like Peter Pan, you and Mr. Jeeves will remain boys forever.”

I snapped my head around to stare at her directly, mouth hanging open to invite in what flies and gnats might be buzzing in the general vicinity. I picked over several choice words I might have thrown at such a pert remark, but having already let even more impertinent comments stand earlier, I settled on, “Possibly, though I can’t say I’m interested in that flying chappie’s idea of the next big adventure, what?”

“No, Bertie,” she agreed, her map angled forward, but the smile upon it spreading up toward her eyes. “Plenty of adventure left in this particular chapter of your story, I think. Oh, is that the field?”

I followed the line of her finger to a grouping of four birds and one beazel. One of the birds waved and shouted, “Hello, Bertie!” Stinker had avoided the swarm in the garden, then.

We approached and, upon closer inspection, determined that the beazel was Cynthia, and the other birds were Lord Wickhammersley, Sticky, and George Chilcott, himself, a raptor of some description perched on his outstretched arm – Chilcott’s arm, that is. Having a look at the falconer’s thick brown curls, roguish smattering of stubble, and bear-like frame, I could easily see why Cynthia would prefer him over this Wooster. 

“What ho, one and all!” I greeted. “I thought I’d bring Agatha here for a trot to see what all this talk of falcons is about, what?”

“Mrs. Christie!”

The requisite amount of fawning followed with Agatha smiling politely at her admirers and shaking their hands. She had to gently remind Sticky that she was probably some ten years his senior and married when he started to go for the bended knee, but otherwise, the next fifteen minutes passed with only one other incident of note. Cynthia introduced herself as my fiancée, which earned a quizzical eyebrow and askance glance from Mrs. Christie that would have made Jeeves proud. I’d shrugged in response to the unasked question, and, in turn, she’d tugged her mouth down in what was obvious disbelief. I suspected questions of the verbal variety would be forthcoming.

First, though, there was the matter of these feathered fiends.

“This is Dawn,” Chilcott explained, presenting the hooded creature to us. “She’s a young white-tailed eagle and the second-largest bird we have.”

“Bit of a misnomer on the species there,” I said, pointing to the girl’s tail. “Looks brown to me. I say! It isn’t that some lads around town have got it into their heads to start painting young Dawn’s tail when you aren’t looking, Chilcott, old chap?”

Chilcott chuckled and in that moment, I was very certain that I would never be able to match up to him for Cynthia’s affections if I had wanted them to begin with. The man’s face lit up and all the sun-drenched wrinkles pulled together to form a picture of pure and unadulterated mirth. “No, Mr. Wooster. First of all, any lads trying to paint Dawn would probably lose a few fingers for the trouble, and second, her tail won’t change to white for at least another year. It’s only adult birds five or more years old that fly white at the back end.”

“Ah, so a regal dusting to indicate age?” I nodded. “Happened with my Uncle Willoughby just before he handed in the dinner pail.”

“Is that so, Mr. Wooster?” Lord Wickhammersley wondered, and it was only then that I noticed his own brow was liberally dusted in the white stuff.

“Ah, well... you see... it’s a rummy thing hair,” I stuttered.

“Oh, Daddy,” Cynthia rescued me from babbling into oblivion, “I hardly think Mr. Wooster meant to imply that you’re beyond the pale.”

I snorted, which set Agatha and Stinker off, which in turn infected Sticky and Chilcott, before finally spreading to Lord Wickhammersley and Cynthia. We shared a jolly laugh with more than a few additional jokes, until more interested parties began to arrive, and Chilcott returned to fine falconer form. He explained a bit more about the history of his art and the training, which I won’t bore you with, then sallied forth into the practical demonstration.

Most of the garden party had joined us by that point, Jeeves and the other servants attending, as well. Let me tell you, it was worth the wait and lecture. Chilcott tossed out a lure at some rather dramatic angles, and each time, Dawn snatched the thing in midair, delving her beak into his fist after each go for what he called a ‘titbit’. As a finale, he asked us all to keep our hands down and had the old girl swoop over our heads and up to a tree at the end of the field. He let her rest for a moment, then motioned her back, raising his fist high. She landed safely, and we all applauded. I noted that Cynthia clapped the longest, and as she’d positioned her hands directly next to my ear, it certainly sounded the loudest.

“More champagne, sir?” Jeeves inquired as the crowd began its migration back toward the garden.

“Rather!” I exchanged my empty glass, then turned to Cynthia who had latched herself dutifully onto my arm as we’d both spotted Lady Wickhammersley prowling. “More champagne, darling dearest?”

“Thank you, love of my life,” she returned with a giggle.

“Agatha?” I offered next.

“Only if you tell me what’s going on here,” she said, gesturing between myself and Cynthia.

“We’re madly in love.” Cynthia illustrated with a peck on my cheek.

“No, you’re not,” Agatha, observant beazel that she is, pointed out.

“If I may, sir?” Jeeves queried, and I nodded for him to continue. He took a quick survey of the area to ensure that the rest of the guests had moved beyond hearing range and explained the situation in hushed tones.

“Ah, so it’s one of your corkers, Mr. Jeeves?” Agatha nodded. “I knew something like that must be going on.”

“You are most perceptive, madam,” Jeeves acknowledged.

“Well, you’re both laying it on a bit thick.” Another wave between the ‘young lovers’. “I’m surprised Drusilla isn’t suspicious already.”

My gaze shot to Jeeves, and I noted a slight upturn of one side of his mouth as he directed his own sights toward the heavens. “Yes... well, it seems to be working for the moment,” I replied, continuing to eye my valet. “I do hope you’ll keep this under your hat though, Agatha, old thing. Would hate to get the bum’s rush before you leave.”

“Not a peep. You have this Christie’s word!” She placed her hand over her heart.

After that, we legged it back to the garden at a fast-ish clip to avoid being missed by anyone caring to look and spent the remainder of the afternoon socializing, tossing back champagne, and eating not nearly enough to avoid that dangerous devil known as intoxication. I had become pleasantly zozzled by the time I noticed Tuppy slinking nearby. I knew there was something I was supposed to talk to him about, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall what it was. Something to do with Angela and Stiffy. It would come to me later.

Around six, I bid farewell to Agatha, Cynthia, and the various other chaps we’d been making merry with and hied myself upstairs to prepare for dinner.

“Jeeves,” I said as he removed my jacket and oozed over to the wardrobe to hang it up, “sound the trumpets and send notice to the heavens. The young master is in love!”

He froze in the process of returning to my side. “Indeed, sir?”

“With Mrs. Christie, Jeeves. She’s the finest beazel I’ve ever met. The cat’s pajamas, what?”

He relaxed and resumed, taking my waistcoat after I pulled it off and handed it over. “You’ll forgive me for pointing it out, sir, but Mrs. Christie is already bound to another, her husband, Colonel Archibald Christie.”

“But that’s what’s so perfect about her!” I related as I unknotted my tie, and Jeeves went to work on my shirt. “She’s intelligent, funny – Really a laugh riot, Jeeves. I’ll have to tell you the one about the baker and the banker later. – possessed of a fine profile, and married with absolutely no interest in Bertram. In fact, she said it wouldn’t suit me, this marriage malarkey, and I quite agree!” I blinked as I realized I had been divested of all clothes on my top half. It wasn’t an entirely unusual state to be in before bunging oneself into the bath, but generally my man left me to deal with the undervest myself.

Jeeves had shimmered over to the taps for my bath, and I stripped down to my pants. As he knelt before the tub, the strangest thought entered the Wooster onion. I could walk over and wrap my arms around him and... do something. What that something might be, I couldn’t fully work out given the alcohol-soaked cotton wrapping itself around the old gray matter, but it would have been something nice. Perhaps a thank you for all that he does for me? I was on the verge of following through with this hugging business when Jeeves straightened up and turned to face me.

He stared for a moment, and I stared back, some trick of the light making it appear as if my man had gulped. My own mouth hung slightly open, and I found myself breathing in short, sharp puffs. “We would not wish to be late to dinner, sir,” he said. “If you would disrobe fully and perform the necessary ablutions, I will lay out your evening wear.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Jeeves.” What blood remained elsewhere in my body shot to my face. Hug Jeeves? What rot! Gentlemen don’t go about hugging their valets, even if said v.s are looking distinctly huggable in a given moment. I wobbled past him on unsteady pins, removed my pants, and bunged myself into the tub. The usual problem rose full force, but with Jeeves hovering about, there was very little I could do to relieve myself. In a last ditch effort, I ordered him out to procure a spot of tea before dinner, and did what needed doing as soon as the door had closed.

He returned in time to do up the various buttons on my evening wear and secure my tie in the perfect butterfly at my throat. His hand brushed my neck during the course of his ministrations, and I felt another of those spine-jellying shivers pass through me.

“J-Jeeves?” I choked out.

“I apologize, sir,” he replied, not sounding the least apologetic as he fiddled with the tie.

“Yes... ah...” I paused, considering whether or not to lay out these strange feelings I’d been having of late before him to get his opinion on the matter. Only, it seemed dashed awkward to ask when said f.’s were directly related to him.

“Was there something else, sir?”

He looked up, and I saw a thingness in his eye that made me lose what little nerve I had left. “I think the tie’s fine, Jeeves.” I pushed his hands away and backed up as his gaze followed me, one ebony brow rising an eighth of an inch.

“Very good, sir.” There was the ghost of a sigh in the words, but he held out my jacket as usual. I didn’t even touch the tea.

\--- --- ---

I found myself seated between Angela and Cynthia with Lady Wickhammersley, Stiffy, and Stinker across the table. Agatha was at the other end, enjoying the company of Tuppy, Sticky, Thumper, and a few of the birds and beazels I didn’t know. I had only just sat down when I felt a hard stamp on my left foot.

I barely contained a manful yelp as I jumped up.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Wooster?” Lady Wickhammersley asked. Stiffy grinned at me, a distinctly predatory affair as one might expect from a cat left in with the canaries.

“No. Nothing at all, Lady Wickhammersley,” I replied, wincing as I felt a blast of fire from Angela’s direction. “Just... ah... remembered something. But it’s not really that important, what?” I sat down again, shifting myself so that my feet were out of easy stomping range.

Angela motioned to me and leaned in close, seething. “Bertie, you’re an absolute cad. How _dare_ you lie to me!”

“Lie, dearest kin?” I tried for innocence. “What lie would that be?”

She was having none of it. “You’re lucky I don’t have Stiffy set Bartholomew on you, Bertie Wooster,” Angela growled. “Hildebrand never said anything about being sorry to you, did he?”

“Ah... well... the sentiment was there,” I said, moving to a different tack. “I’m sure of it. I was just... communicating old Tuppy’s true, heartfelt feelings.”

“If you ever lie to me again, Bertie, I-I’ll tell Mummy never to invite you to Brinkley Court again!”

“Steady on!” As luck would have it, the conversation chose that moment to lull about the dinner table. More than a few heads turned our way and I found myself wishing I was one of those South American lizard chaps who can blend in with the décor.

“Something the matter, my one and only?” Cynthia inquired, slipping her hand into mine as soup was set before our places.

“No, no!” I assured. “Nothing at all, dearest peach. Misunderstanding, that’s all. Right, Angela?”

If looks could kill, I can assure you that this Wooster would not be writing these words now.

It was a less than jocular Bertram who enjoyed that night’s meal. Between Angela’s gaze boring into the side of my head, Cynthia’s hand grabbing for mine so often I couldn’t finish half the courses, Stiffy’s glittering teeth making an appearance every time I looked at her, and Lady Wickhammersley’s talk of weddings, I couldn’t find any subject that seemed safe. I blinked mournfully at Stinker more than once, but Stiffy had the poor chap trained by now to look the other way to the plight of his oldest friends when she had her keen eye upon him. The one spot of light was that Jeeves, taking pity on me, was far more attentive than necessary, refilling my glass every other sip and offering quiet words of encouragement to the tune of, “Only two more courses until the meal is over, sir.”

I’m not sure I would have survived the rest of the evening if we’d been crowded into the drawing room after that, but luckily, Lord and Lady Wickhammersley had the sense to bung us into the music room, the largest room in the manor, for after-dinner cocktails and cigars.

I _carped_ the _diem_ with a gasper to settle my nerves and ended up banging out a few tunes on the piano with Cynthia again, much to the delight of all present. I tried approaching Tuppy at one point about the sitch re: Angela, but he was just as recalcitrant as my cousin, if not more-so.

“I don’t need _you_ sticking your nose into my affairs, Bertie,” he harrumphed, waving me away. “I can deal with it on my own!”

“Well, I like that!” I rejoined, not a little annoyed. “After all the times I’ve helped you out with Angela, this is how you repay me?”

“You mean _Jeeves_ has helped me out,” he corrected. “Do us a favor, Bertie. Next time you decide to act clever, ask Jeeves to knock some sense into that empty space between your ears.”

I whirled away before I could say something I’d really regret and went in search of a w. and s. and a sympathetic ear. I found one in the form of Agatha – the sympathetic ear, that is, not the w. and s. She had the common decency not to suggest that I put the matter to Jeeves and instead heard me out, offering a pat of the back at the end of my tale of woe.

“It will work out, Bertie, don’t worry,” she consoled. “Angela and Tuppy are always like this in your stories and something manages to fix it.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t care for another 18-mile bike ride in the rain,” I grumbled.

“Here’s something to cheer you up,” she said, drawing toward the entrance of the room, catching Jeeves’ eye and motioning him over as she went. “Why don’t we knock off early? I’m quite tired after the train, and it seems like you could do with a good read to take your mind off of things. ”

“Oh, rather!” I brightened immediately.

“How does that sound to you, Mr. Jeeves?” She turned to my man who had glided over soundlessly while she spoke.

“A most agreeable conclusion to the day, madam.”

“Right then, Mr. Jeeves and Mr. Wooster, follow me.”


	7. Chapter 6

We mounted the stairs and trotted across the second-floor landing to Agatha’s room after sneaking out of the music room. She placed her hand on the door once we’d reached it and paused.

“Something the matter, old fruit?”

“Ah... there’s a bit of a mess. I didn’t have time to really unpack properly after the train, and then I was rushing in the bath before dinner.”

“If you require assistance with your wardrobe, madam, I would be only too pleased to assist,” Jeeves offered in what I have to say was a step above and beyond the old feudal spirit.

“Th-thank you, Mr. Jeeves.” It was the first time that day I’d seen her blush, and I have to say she pulled it off dashed well. I tend to go red out to my ears, but she managed to keep the rouge contained to her cheeks as she jiggled the handle and pushed into the room.

“I say!” I cried upon stepping in and getting an eyeful of the r. in question. “Did a horde of rabid raccoons ransack the place while you were out?”

Various itemries of clothing were flung over the most improbable of objects – the canopy on the bed, the mirror, the bedside lamp – and sheets of paper, some crumpled, others shining white in anticipation of the words that would be writ there, littered the floor.

“Am I to understand the paper on the floor is meant to be discarded, madam?” was the only question Jeeves asked.

“Just the crumpled ones. I’ll-I’ll get those, Mr. Jeeves.” She crouched and began gathering up little balls of the Stories That Might Have Been and tossing them into the rubbish bin. I busied myself collecting and stacking the clean pages on the desk, and before you could say ‘tinkerty tonk’, everything had found its way to the proper place.

Agatha thanked us both, then directed me to the armchair by the bed and proceeded to the desk. She reached toward her throat, and as she slid a hand down toward the neckline of her blouse, I felt myself becoming distinctly uncomfortable. I looked to Jeeves and found him studying the bedspread with far more interest than its bland, bluish number warranted.

“Here we are.” I shifted my gaze back to Agatha in time to see her slip a gold necklace from around her head. A key dangled at the end, which she inserted into one of the drawers of the desk and turned. The thing released with a click and from out of the depths, she withdrew her manuscript, white pages in a thick, yellow envelope.

I had to stop myself from leaping forward and snatching the thing from her hands as such impulses aren’t at all in accordance with the actions of a _preux chevalier_. As it was, I tensed, eyes going wide as she walked over and placed the manuscript in my lap.

“Now Bertie, you have to promise me that you will keep this safe at all times. It should never leave your room, nor should you let anyone else see it. That’s the majority of my manuscript you have there, though I’m still editing the last two chapters, so you’ll have to wait for those.”

I could only nod dumbly.

“I am certain Mr. Wooster will take the utmost care with your manuscript, madam,” Jeeves interpreted.

“I’m sure he will,” she agreed. “But it’s best to be clear about these things. Now...” she continued, returning to her desk and producing a well-loved volume from within, “I believe I’m owed an autograph. Oh, I wish I’d brought _Carry On, Jeeves_ with me, as well. Another time.”

“Oh, rather!” I found my voice as she handed over the book and a pen.

“Perhaps a freshly printed volume of the book in question could be mailed to Mrs. Christie’s home address, sir,” Jeeves concurred, and I could hear from his tone that it was only a feudal sense of what is proper that prevented him from ripping Agatha’s ragged-‘round-the-edges copy of _The Inimitable Jeeves_ from my grasp and chucking it into the nearest fireplace for a swift whatsit – ‘cream’ came to mind, though I’m dashed if I could say why.

I flipped open the book, careful of the binding that seemed to have seen the wilds of Africa and then some, and wrote out a note:

_‘To the Inimitable Agatha Christie,_

_From one fan to another, I hope this little bit of nonsense will continue to brighten your days._

_Toodle Pip,  
Bertram W. Wooster’_

I smiled down at the inscription, waving the page back and forth a bit to dry out the ink. That’s when the table of contents caught my eye. I ran the Wooster e.’s down the list and my smile grew wider.

“Hah! Do you remember when we rescued Aunt Agatha’s pearls from that Soapy Sid fellow, Jeeves?”

I glanced up and saw him looking down at me with whiff of smugness about his person. “Indeed, sir. You seemed most gratified by the outcome of events.”

“Gratified?” I raised an eyebrow at my man and handed the book back to Agatha. “Gratified does not even _begin_ to cover it, Jeeves. Being able to put the old dragon in her place for once had this Wooster skipping through the streets.”

“I can only imagine,” Agatha broke in, sitting down on her bed and smiling at us. “There’s something I’ve been wondering since I first met you, though.”

“Ask away, Agatha,” I said. “Bertram is open to what queries you might have.”

“Just how long _have_ you been together, you and Mr. Jeeves? You seem to have had quite a lot of adventures.”

“Not sure, really,” I replied, applying a few scratches to the Wooster onion to stimulate the Wooster gray matter. “It’s hard to remember a time when Jeeves wasn’t around, what?”

“As of the present date, I have been in Mr. Wooster’s employ five years, one month, and four days, discounting a minor separation of one week some three years ago,” Jeeves rattled off, quick as a horse out of the starting gate.

“Five years, Jeeves?” I goggled at the man. “Well, well, well. Five years... Hah! That long since the boat race night. I must be paying you all right for you to stick around, what?”

“The remuneration is amicable, sir,” he returned, voice thickening to a distinctly soupy timbre, as is often the case when it comes to his salary. I really wasn’t even sure what I paid the chap. He handles the finances, you see, so I had always assumed it was some reasonable amount with the requisite bonus tossed in for Christmases and birthdays, along with the customary brown-paper package bearing a tag with his name on the ‘To:’ line and mine on the ‘From:’. So long as the young master had enough of the paper stuff in the pocketbook for a corking new tie and a dinner out, the y. m. was happy to let his man deal with all matters monetary.

“Ah... yes... well,” I stuttered as I searched for a subject not likely to raise the Jeevesian hackles any higher.

“Surely there are _other_ benefits to an employer like Bertie, though, Mr. Jeeves.” Agatha interjected. “Things more important and dear than money?”

Silence dropped in for tea and biscuits, crashing the moderately uncomfortable atmosphere, and throwing pails of ice water over all and sundry. My man’s eyebrow crept upward by degrees until it had risen a full quarter of an inch.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, madam.” Did I say soupy? It would have taken a bally cleaver to cut through Jeeves’ tone just then.

Agatha took it in stride, matching him eyebrow for eyebrow as I gaped at this baffling battle of wills playing out before me. “Oh, you know, Mr. Jeeves... holidays, travel, piano concerts in the afternoons and evenings.”

The dark aura of displeasure emanating from my valet vanished faster than a rabbit in one of those magician chappie’s stage shows. “As you say, madam,” he acknowledged with a nod. “Mr. Wooster is a most generous employer, and you state correctly the circumstances with regard to Mr. Wooster’s musical endeavors. I have often found myself feeling as though I had experienced a week-long performance after a mere five minutes of listening to his rendition of the latest popular number.”

“Really, Jeeves?” I grinned. “Well, you know I...” It sunk into the Wooster onion what he had just implied, and I crossed my arms with a harrumph. “Yes, Jeeves... very amusing. I’m afraid you’ll find, Agatha, old fruit, that Jeeves’ tastes in the musical realm are more suited to the times when gentlemen wore wigs, powdered their faces, and traversed the countryside on horseback.”

“If it is not too bold to disagree, sir, I believe you will recall our stay in New York, during which I assisted you in learning many fine, modern songs of jazz origin.”

“And yet you pitch a bally fit when I take up the banjolele!”

“Sir, I would hardly characterize my reaction as–”

A fit of giggles interrupted whatever else Jeeves might have to say on the subject. I turned to see Agatha stifling the noise with a hand over her mouth, but the moment was lost and the Woosterly ire of the ages dissipated.

“I say,” I I-sayed her, “care to share the joke?”

“It’s just...” she managed between gasps as she dabbed at her eyes with a silken handkerchief, “you two... You’re...” She made a wiggling motion with her free hand, which I imitated, then turned to Jeeves for clarification on.

He was looking just as perplexed as I felt, though, if you can imagine it. Granted, the casual observer would have seen nothing more interesting on his map than a slight tilt of the Jeevesian lip, but Bertram is more than a casual observer when it comes to his man. He gazed at Agatha rather like she’d suddenly sprouted a tentacle from her forehead, and he wasn’t quite certain if he should break out the old swashbuckler’s togs and have at the thing, or act as though it were a perfectly natural occurrence in the course of one’s day.

Finally, the very peculiar authoress who had come into my acquaintance settled down and continued in more even tones. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but I haven’t laughed like that in quite a long time. I really meant no offense. It’s just that you’re...” I watched her face, feeling a pang of empathy as she groped for whatever devilish turn of phrase was getting away from her. “I can’t really explain it.” Another battle of idiomatical origins lost. “It’s you two. You’re quite amusing.”

“Oh, no offense taken, old thing,” I assured and glanced at Jeeves to ascertain whether this was entirely true. Thankfully, there was more concern than stuffed frog lurking about his visage. “Many’s the filly who’s laughed at the antics of this Wooster. Think nothing of it, really!”

“Thank you. And now, I suppose I should be seeing you off. No doubt you’ll want to do a bit of reading before bed, hmm, Bertie?”

“Rather!”

We stood, and she ushered us toward the door. As we were about to head for the stairs up to the third floor, though, she stopped me with, “Oh... there’s something else I wanted to mention, Bertie.”

“What’s that, then?” I asked just a little impatiently.

“Well...” I caught her eyes drifting to the right a bit to where Jeeves was undoubtedly looming over my shoulder.

“Jeeves, be a good chap and shimmer along to my room to lay out my pajamas.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like me to take the manuscript?”

“Oh, no. No, I think I’ll keep hold of it for now, Jeeves.”

He nodded and biffed off as only Jeeves can biff – that is to say, without a sound.

I leaned in toward the doorway, uncertain if I should re-enter. “What’s the news, then, old thing?”

“It’s...” she cast a suspicious eye across the landing, then drew me inside once more. “It’s about you and Cynthia, Bertie. You need to be careful. Even if the plan is one of Jeeves’ corkers, a few slip-ups and it could all ‘go to Hell in a handbasket’, as the Americans say.”

“You and Jeeves are both worrying far too much,” I said, waving away her concern. “Even if it does reach the point where Lady Wickhammersley says ‘boo’, I know you now, and I hope you wouldn’t mind meeting me outside the setting of a garden party.”

“You’re missing the part where you may end up saddled with Cynthia for real, Bertie,” she pointed out.

“I hardly think I’m as careless as all that,” I rejoined. “Besides, Cynthia doesn’t want to marry me.”

“No, but she’s expected to, Bertie.”

My brow furrowed. She wasn’t making any sense. “You’re not making any sense, old thing. We’re all expected to get married at some point. I mean, I know you said this marriage business wouldn’t suit me, and it’s a pleasant thought, just me and Jeeves at the flat, living out our days in merry bachelorhood, but it’s not the done thing. I’m expected to carry on the Wooster line, you know?”

“Oh, Bertie, _never_ get married just because it’s expected.” Agatha’s voice had taken on a thingness that reflected as a distinct moistening of the ocular region. “I’ve written about murder and scandal and backstabbing of the most terrible sort, but a marriage just because it’s expected is a fate I would not wish upon my worst enemies.”

“I-I say, Agatha,” I ventured, a frown creasing the brow, “you’re not... I mean... well...?”

“Please don’t misunderstand.” She sighed. “I’m not innocent in the matter, and it hasn’t been all bad times. There were so many good times. I think that’s what hurts more. Archie is... well, he’s exactly the man I married. The fact that I ask more of him than he’s willing to give... We’re both to blame, and we both suffer the consequences.”

“But can’t you just say ‘toodle pip’, take what’s yours, and stride forth to greener pastures?” I asked. “I mean to say, not everyone lives by the Code of the Woosters, and you’re certainly not bound to it. You read in the papers all the time about Lord Whatsit parting brass rags with Lady Something-Or-Other over a horse or a house–”

“Or a whore,” Agatha interrupted, then added hastily when she recognized the blanch on my face for what it was. “I do apologize. Really, Bertie, you’re a dear, sweet man.” She reached out to pat my shoulder. “But you have no idea what it’s like to be a woman, or to be married. I have a daughter to think about. She’s only six. Even if Archie’s seeing that... In any case, thank you for your kind words, but it’s just not that simple.”

“Well... quite.” I mean to say, how else is a chap to respond to such a clear statement of the facts? “Can I at least offer a hug?”

She grimaced, then laughed, a pitiful sound that didn’t suit her in the slightest. “You’re much too kind, Mr. Wooster.”

I set the manuscript down on the floor and welcomed her into my arms. To her credit, not a tear salted my shoulder, though there were more than a few brave sniffles. I felt rather helpless, standing there with nothing to offer this filly, this woman whom I had admired for years, other than a few pats on the back and a not-nearly-solid-enough frame to wrap her arms around.

After some five minutes, she pulled away and dabbed at her eyes with that same handkerchief she had used earlier. “I fear you must think me some terrible beazel, sobbing left and right.”

“Not at all,” I tried to reassure her. “We all need a sympathetic ear and ready shoulder now and again, what?”

She nodded. “You’re very lucky to have Mr. Jeeves for that, Bertie.”

“I know, old thing. Believe me, I know. I think I take advantage of the poor chap sometimes, though. I mean, I am paying him to listen, but he’s fished me out of the soup more times than I can count. Certainly more times than just the ones I’ve written about. I really don’t know how I managed without him before.”

“You should tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That he means more to you than just a servant.”

I could feel what was now becoming a familiar blush tint my cheeks. “Well... that is to say... I’m not sure he’d be terribly keen on the idea, Agatha, old fruit. Feudal spirit and all.”

She leaned down, picked up the manuscript, and placed it in my hands once more. “I think you might be surprised. Good night, Bertie, and thank you. I hope you enjoy the manuscript. It’s called _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_.”

I climbed the stairs to my room in something of a daze after that, trying to imagine Jeeves’ response to my assertion that he was more than the best valet either side of the Atlantic, but rather the most spiffing chap I had ever met, and that I considered him a true friend. No, more than that! What was more than that? I couldn’t really think of anything except for ‘the real tobasco’, which was sure to earn me soupy, ‘As you say, sir.’ and the cold shoulder for what remained of the weekend. Unfortunately, the rest of my imaginary Jeeveses responded in much the same way to any admission on my part that we were more than master and servant. The most optimistic of my imaginary Jeeveses replied with a sort of mildly-amused ‘Indeed, sir?’, humoring the imaginary Bertram laying his soul bare before his man.

“Sir, are you quite all right?” Jeeves’ voice roused me from my daydreaming as I entered the room. Thankfully, I didn’t start quite so badly as I had the last time, but it was a near thing, the manuscript slipping through my fingers and landing on the floor with a heavy thump.

“Yes, Jeeves, I’m fine,” I replied, hastily snatching up the m. and placing it on the bedside table. My pajamas were laid out and all that was left to do for the night was to disrobe, brush my teeth, climb between the covers, and start on my new Agatha Christie ‘novel’.

“Is Mrs. Christie all right, sir?” my man pressed as he removed my jacket and hung it up, returning to undo the tricky little buttons running up and down my front.

“Well... ah... bit of a rummy sitch, Jeeves,” I admitted. “Not sure if she’d want me blabbing about it though, you see.”

“Would the ‘rummy sitch’ to which you are referring, sir, have to do with the recent scandal involving Colonel Archibald Christie and Ms. Nancy Neele?”

“Jeeves?” I had been doing quite a bit of gaping today, but that certainly deserved an unhinging of the jaw.

He coughed, then began work on my tie. “One does not wish to gossip about such unfortunate events, sir, but I had detected a certain melancholy about Mrs. Christie’s countenance this evening that I could only attribute to circumstances outside those immediately apparent.”

“Well, you certainly are more perceptive than me, Jeeves,” I said, shaking my head. “I didn’t know the old girl was off her stride until she was all but crying into my shirt.”

“Indeed, sir. It is a most unhappy situation.”

“You don’t think you could help her out, Jeeves?” I asked, brightening at the thought. If Jeeves knew about it, he could fix it before Agatha could say ‘What’s this, then?’

“I am afraid not, sir,” he replied with a slight frown, dashing my hopes. “While I might perhaps offer some small advice to make the situation more tolerable for Mrs. Christie, a marriage in which neither party will come out the better for an outsider’s interference is not an affair in which I should like to become entangled.”

“Fair enough, Jeeves.” I sighed. “You do far too much already.”

“I find myself content in my present circumstances, sir.”

“Really, Jeeves?” I wondered, eyeing his back as I removed my undervest and he went to hang my shirt and tie in the wardrobe. “Nothing else you’re wanting for?”

“Sir?” He turned back just as I was sitting down on the bed and glided over, kneeling down to help me with my shoes.

“Well, five years...” I tried for nonchalance, but the incremental increase in the pitch of my voice really did nothing to assist on that front. “That’s a long time for two chaps to be living together, what?”

“Indeed, sir?” My shoes were off and he was now rolling up my trouser legs to get at the garters holding my socks up. More than a little unusual, but certain parts of the Wooster anatomy that had also taken note of the irregular proceedings were quite content to let said i. p.’s continue as they would.

“Indeed, Jeeves.” I gulped as his hands danced over first my right leg, then my left, removing the garters and rolling down my socks with greater care than any mere hosiery deserves. “S-so, if there’s anything the young master can do,” I continued as he returned my trouser cuffs to their proper positions and began sliding his hands toward my trouser buttons, “just say the word, and I’ll-I’ll– _Jeeves_!”

He stopped, one hand resting on my upper thigh, much too close to the source of discomfort lurking just below the surface of two thin layers of fabric. We locked gazes, and in that moment, his eyes were as dark as they had ever been in the bathroom that day not terribly long ago. I saw that his nostrils were flared and that his chest was rising and falling in tandem with mine. I wondered if his heart was pounding somewhere in the region of his throat, as well.

I blinked, and the spell broke.

Jeeves stood up so quickly I feared he might faint from the sudden change in altitude. No such happenstance occurred, and instead, my man performed an abrupt about face and strode with a singular purpose toward my wardrobe, the shoes, garters, and socks clutched in his hands.

“Will you require further assistance, sir?” He asked, not looking at me.

For a moment, I considered saying yes, but then common sense and a healthy amount of embarrassment kicked in.

“Ah... no. No, Jeeves. Have a nice evening. Read an improving book or two, what?”

“Thank you, sir. I hope you enjoy Mrs. Christie’s manuscript.” He shimmered away, and it was a very confused Bertram who proceeded to take matters into his own hands before pulling on his pajamas, brushing his teeth, and slipping between the covers.

I dragged Agatha’s manuscript over and prodded at the envelope for several minutes, still trying to collect my thoughts. It was a fruitless endeavor, though, so I threw myself into _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ , devouring the thing page-by-page until Morpheus came calling, and I could resist no longer.


	8. Chapter 7

The next morning, I was roused by the gentle cough of a sheep traversing the lonely moors in search of some delicate and rare patch of grass. I rolled over to acknowledge Jeeves in the usual manner when I recalled what had transpired last night. The customary greeting died in my throat, but my man appeared unfazed by this development as I blinked up at him.

“Good morning, sir,” he said. “It promises to be a warm day with high clouds of the _Cirrus firbratus_ variety collecting to the east over the course of the afternoon. Would you like to take your breakfast in bed or in the armchair?”

Well, what was I to do in the face of such stolidity? It was but the work of the moment for this Wooster’s sleep-fogged gray matter to arrive at the same conclusion Jeeves had. We would treat the incident last night like any other red-blooded Englishmen loyal to king and country would: as if it had never happened.

“Thank you, Jeeves,” I replied, pulling my voice from Morpheus’ grasp and sitting up. “You seem to have, once more, anticipated the young master’s every whim. I think I’ll take it here in bed and read – Jeeves! The manuscript! I fell asleep with it, and... Oh.” You may be asking: What is this ‘oh’ business, Bertram? I shall tell you.

Jeeves reached out with one hand and touched it briefly to the yellow envelope where it was sitting on the bedside table. “I took the liberty of collecting the volume before waking you, sir, so as to avoid the complications that might arise should it be knocked to the floor.”

Why he thought the v. in question might be knocked to the floor upon my awakening, I couldn’t fathom, but I was grateful for the care he’d taken. It was then that one of those rummy thoughts that were steadily increasing in frequency occurred to me. Jeeves had been in my room before I was awake. That was common enough as it happened just about every morning, but what did he _do_ in the time between his arrival and my waking? An image of Jeeves leaning against the wardrobe, sipping tea, and watching me as I slept forced its way into the mind’s eye before I could stop it, and I fairly shot out of bed.

“The armchair, Jeeves,” I decided, announcing my intentions in a somewhat strained voice. “I’ll take breakfast in the armchair.”

“Very good, sir.” I didn’t look at him, too preoccupied in grabbing the manuscript and scuttling past to fold myself into said a., but I could hear a certain whatsit in his voice that was threatening to bring on further visions of a most fruity nature.

As with last night, to stave off such thoughts, I threw myself into Agatha’s manuscript, consuming the next chapter even as I made short work of the eggs and b. my man had procured from downstairs.

“Do you know who I feel like, Jeeves?” I asked as I flipped a page over some intermediary – Is that the word I want? Indeterminate! There’s the tricky chap. – some indeterminate length of time later, finishing another chapter and mentally preparing the Wooster onion for the next thrill.

“No, sir,” he replied, pausing in his apparent effort to reorganize the young master’s sock collection in order to focus his full attention on the y. m. I noticed that the breakfast tray had disappeared, though when he had shimmered off with the thing, I couldn’t say.

“I feel like that whatsit fellow, the one who stole fire from the gods and brought it down to earth.”

“You are perhaps thinking of Prometheus, sir. A character from Greek mythology who first appeared in the 8th-century B.C. in Hesiod’s _Theogony_.”

“Yes. Yes, that’s the one, Jeeves,” I said, forestalling further explanation. “Well, I feel like I’ve stolen something quite special here, and I can’t wait to share it with everyone else once Agatha publishes her book.”

One eyebrow rose a molecule. “I believe you are forgetting the ultimate fate that befell Prometheus for his theft, sir.”

“That business with the eagles?” I waved my hand to flick away his concerns, though I fear I might have looked more like I was trying to brush off a troublesome mosquito buzzing about my ear. “Well, having just come from that excellent lecture on birding by your chum Chilcott, I think I’ll be all right.”

“Falconry, sir.”

“Jeeves?”

“Mr. Chilcott’s chosen profession is falconry, sir. Birding, or birdwatching, is a hobby that enjoyed no small measure of popularity during the Victorian era. It involves, as the title would indicate, watching any avian species one might encounter in the course of daily events or during expeditions framed around such activities.”

“Why would anyone want to sit and watch birds, Jeeves?” I asked, pulling a face. It was all well and good to cast a friendly e. upon the lark when he’s chirruping in a nearby tree, but to go looking for one? Seemed a dashed odd way to spend a day out.

“I could not say, sir. There are many reasons for which one might acquire a particular hobby. You have often mentioned your late-uncle’s fascination with rabbits in his final years.”

“Yes,” I mused, “Uncle Henry was always a bit of an odd bird.”

A cough, as the sheep upon the moor who, having found his patch of the green stuff, wished to inform his fellows. “Was it your intention, sir, to spend the remainder of the morning in your nightwear?”

“Eh?” I glanced down and saw that I was, indeed, still robed in the old heliotrope pajamas. I raised my sights to Jeeves again and recognized the tiniest crease of disapproval along his brow. “Well,” I said, a devilish grin tugging at the corners of my mouth, “I suppose I could make like Rocky Todd, eh, Jeeves? Toss a jumper over the old jimjams come teatime.”

I realized I’d gone too far as Jeeves’ eyebrows took a tilt toward the dramatic and raced to meet his hairline. “Sir?” A lesser man would have stuttered, or gaped in abject horror. Jeeves, to his credit, kept the upper lip stiff, but it certainly looked to be a near thing.

“I-I’m only having you on a bit, Jeeves,” I rushed to reassure him, setting the manuscript aside on the table that had once held my breakfast. “Really, very sorry, old thing. It was a mad notion. The young master would never do anything like that to you, what? Banish the thought from your brain, set fire to what’s fled, and chuck the lot in the proverbial roadside ditch!” I found myself in a standing posish – having risen at some point – wringing my hands together with no small amount of conster-whatsit.

“Do not trouble yourself unduly over the matter, sir. I shall be better directly,” my man, my paragon of a manservant, flipped the sitch, now trying to assure Bertram that all would be right in the world; the snail would be upon his thorn, and the lark upon his wing, singing some tune to entertain the those birder chappies. “If you would like to remove your pajamas, sir, I will run your bath.”

I nodded and hurried to comply, stripping to the all together in less time than it takes for Stinker Pinker to spot the nearest valuable object in the vicinity and trip over it.

Jeeves glided back into the room. “The bath will be ready... soon, sir,” he finished with a long pause, taking in an eyeful of the young master’s skinny form. It wasn’t as though he’d never seen me in a state _dishabille_ – as he’d pointed out, we’d been together for over five years – but it had become different as of late. Some unknown beast stirred within the Wooster tum... or rather, a bit south of that particular organ.

I suddenly found myself quite aware of the temperature in the room. Sweet-scented steam wafted from the adjoining doorway in which Jeeves stood, wreathing my man in an ethereal mist of white.

“Well, I’m ready whenever it is, Jeeves,” I related in a key that would have made any Eton chorus boy jealous. “I say, is it a bit warm in here? M-maybe you should open the window.”

His eyes snapped up from where they’d been drifting rather lower than was entirely proper. Of course, that was nonsense. Jeeves was always proper – the feudal spirit, you know – I would need to reassess my definition of that particular word.

“I apologize, sir,” he said, striding window-ward. “I should have anticipated the temperature rise due to the warm water.”

As he flung wide the windows, I took the opportunity to run my own e.’s over my man’s corpus. He’d done it to me, so why not return the favor? There was much to admire about Jeeves, even from the back. Sunlight reflected off his black brilliantined locks, the likes of which hid his massive brain from view. His broad shoulders led off on either side to longish arms that had large, capable hands attached to the ends. His coat obscured his waistline, but having seen him in his shirtcuffs, I knew there lurked a belly with the slightest hint of fluff around the middle. It was a comforting sort of fluff, assuring the young master that his man was feeding himself well enough. Rare was the evening when I would see Jeeves enjoying a cup of tea, let alone all those fish he’s undoubtedly consumed over the years.

“Sir?”

I blinked and realized I’d been staring far too long. Jeeves had turned back around and was returning my gaze, though his sights tracked a bit lower for a moment before shooting up again to study my map.

I could empathize with his discomfort quite physically as I turned away, sprinting into the bathroom at top speed and skidding to a halt before the tub. Jeeves followed at a more sedate shimmer and bent down to turn off the taps.

“Do you require assistance, sir?” he asked in that rum tone I couldn’t twig to for the life of me as he straightened once more.

“No, Jeeves. No, no!” I said, using my hands and turning my body as best I could to hide my embarrassment.

“There is no need to be embarrassed, sir. It is a perfectly natural reaction in a young gentleman.” Well, if he wasn’t a bally mind-reader, I’d eat my magenta waistcoat.

“Not when the reaction comes about as a result of ogling one’s valet, Jeeves!” I’m afraid I rather snapped.

That old scoundrel, silence, popped in for another visit, feeling out the lay of this new land, deciding he liked it, and proceeding to set up shop.

It was Jeeves who broke the unnatural stillness, raising an eyebrow and saying, “Sir, would you care to ex–”

Unfortunately, once broke, it left room for Bertram to go interrupting. “I think you should lay out my suit for the day, Jeeves.”

“You do not wish to pursue the previous conversation to its natural conclusion, sir?”

“No, I jolly well do not want to do anything of the sort, Jeeves.” The parts of the Wooster anatomy that had taken a distinct interest in the sight of the Jeevesian backside had begun to wilt as blood was redirected to color my map what must have been the brightest shade of red seen on God’s green E. since the invention of the tomato. I needed something to distract Jeeves with, something to call forth the frog until I could sort out the meaning of this absolutely ludicrous proclamation.

“I should like to wear my plaid trousers today, so lay those out.”

“Sir?” My ploy worked like one of those mystical baubles you can collect off any seasoned seaside fortuneteller. He sounded soupy. Beyond soupy, even. Positively stewy, what?

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Jeeves,” I reprimanded, latching onto the familiar argument with the vigor of a drowning chappie adhering to his rescuer. “I promised I wouldn’t wear them yesterday, but I’m determined that Agatha should see them today.”

“Do you think it wise to wear a pattern that might cast your ancestral heritage into doubt, sir?”

“Very wise. Incredibly wise. _Indescribably_ wise, Jeeves!” I challenged. “Off you go then.” I risked raising one of my hands to shoo him away.

“Very good, sir,” he deferred - the stuffiest of stuffed frogs masking his face - bowed, and biffed off.

I bunged myself into the wet stuff, but by that time, whatever beast had been stirring had decided to return to bed for the requisite forty winks. I can tell you, it was a Bertram lacking in the usual gruntlement who spent the next fifteen minutes rinsing away the grime of the night gone by and mulling over recent events.

I caught glimpses of Jeeves fluttering about outside the bathroom door and tried not to think about him... which was a bit difficult when I was also trying to sort through our last conversation.

“Oh, bother!” I grumbled, swiping moodily at my rubber ducky. He squeaked in protest, and I felt a bit bad to be abusing him so after all we’d been through together.

“Really, though, my good chap,” I whispered, shoving him below the bathwater and releasing him to bob back up, “what is wrong with young Bertram?”


	9. Interlude

Mr. Wooster has asked, and I have assented, to enter here with a small note based on the events and my actions in the previous chapters of this narrative. I do not possess my employer’s particular gift for colorful prose, nor do I wish this missive to run to any great length, so I shall be direct: I am an invert, a gentleman’s personal gentleman who prefers the company of other gentlemen.

I had, initially, suspected that Mr. Wooster was of my own disposition given his aversion to marriage and his somewhat-disastrous encounters with females of the species, even those to whom he was related. However, I began to doubt myself as the years passed by, and I could find no conclusive evidence to support my hypothesis. Mr. Wooster did not collect materials of a pornographic nature, his most salacious possession being a clay paper weight cast in a dubious mold, which his sister, Mrs. Sylvia Scholfield, had given to him as a present on his seventh birthday. It is my understanding now that this was the year during which Mr. Wooster and Mrs. Scholfield’s parents died in a car crash.

To my chagrin, I had learned of the importance Mr. Wooster attached to the object only after attempting to remove it from his office with the rest of the rubbish some two months into my employ. It was the first and only time, I believe, that he yelled at me in anger. It was in that moment, as I found myself having to consciously resist the urge to step back and cringe, that I came to fully appreciate that my employer was Mrs. Agatha Gregson’s nephew. I had not touched the object since, but perhaps in deference to my own aesthetic sensibilities, he had placed it in a less obtrusive spot behind a set of encyclopedias.

While I could find no questionable materials – at least in the context of a gentleman’s intimate preferences – in the flat, this did not preclude the possibility that Mr. Wooster simply did not care for such things when fulfilling his more basic needs. Given his ‘Code of the Woosters’, this seemed likely, and I ceased my hunt for whatever store of erotica my employer might possess.

Next, I turned to his behavior for some indication. Mr. Wooster is a gregarious gentleman who has great difficulty hiding his emotions from even the most obtuse men. While an endearing characteristic, this has necessitated my excluding him from knowledge of my machinations on more than one occasion in order to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion for all parties involved in whatever difficulties had arisen. In any case, I noted that Mr. Wooster tended to show more physical affection toward his male acquaintances than females, though I did not feel this was sufficient evidence on which to form an opinion for the same reasons I stated with regard to the lack of pornography.

With nothing on which to base any concrete conclusions, I relocated the question to the back of my mind with a number of other small curiosities. It was only some years after that the matter returned to the forefront of my conscious. It was directly following events which had led to Mr. Wooster biking eighteen miles in the rain. He had returned home, so thoroughly dejected at the sight of his friends making merry at his expense, that I felt for the first time that one of my wheezes, as he calls them, had gone awry.

Although I explained the situation, and he accepted this with his customary optimism and thanks, I could not help feeling that I had failed him. Sitting with him as he sipped at a warm cup of tea, ensconced in an extra blanket I had procured from one of the maids, I had the sudden impulse to embrace him. I did not proceed, of course, well used to contemplating any notion before acting upon it. I considered the circumstances and my own culpability in his obvious distress, and determined that the whim had sprung from what the Greeks would call _storge_ , a familial love, as an uncle might feel for a beloved nephew. My employer, while only six years my junior, often comported himself as a much younger gentleman, requiring the attention of a patient relative to ensure his well-being. I had placed the emotional well-being of Mr. Wooster’s friends over his physical well-being in this instance. I reasoned that this must be the cause of my inappropriately affectionate feelings toward him.

However, as time passed and my warm thoughts toward Mr. Wooster began to take a decidedly lascivious bend, I realized that I had mistakenly attributed feelings deriving from _eros_ as _storge_. More than that, I had made the conscious effort to label my feelings as such. Familial affection is more easily dealt with than sensual affection and longing for one’s employer.

I considered quitting to protect both myself and Mr. Wooster from any complications that might arise from the realization of my attraction. I am a selfish man, though, and I simply could not bring myself to walk away without determining whether or not circumstances might fall in such a manner as to allow for the negotiation of an understanding between myself and Mr. Wooster.

I turned once more to the question of Mr. Wooster’s preferences with great vigor, reexamining my previously-collected evidence and daring to hope. Additionally, I followed Mr. Wooster covertly over the course of several nights in order to ascertain if he was seeking his carnal pleasures elsewhere, though I thought it highly unlikely given that I had never detected the stench particular to such establishments upon his person.

In the meanwhile, I began pressing lightly at the boundary between appropriate and questionable contact in the hopes that his reaction would provide greater insight. As with all of my actions, my employer took a light brush of my fingers across his chest, or the overly-intent smoothing of his lapel ‘in stride’. I despaired, thinking him unaffected, until one morning some months later.

I had taken great pains to ensure that I ran my hands down the full length of his arms as I removed his pajama top that morning, for he had looked particularly angelic as I’d woken him, a beam of light transforming his hair into a golden halo about his head. As I was laying out his suit for the day, I became cognizant of soft, almost pained, noises emanating from the bathroom. Concerned that Mr. Wooster had somehow managed to hurt himself, I hurried to the door, but froze before entering as I heard him gasp, then sigh contentedly.

I dared to edge closer, shifting so that I could look in upon my employer, and saw that it was as I had suspected. Mr. Wooster sat in the tub with his legs spread apart, head thrown back, and one arm moving slowly up and down, grasping something just out of my line of sight. I swallowed the saliva collecting in my mouth and hastily removed myself to my own bathroom to deal with the growing tightness in my trousers.

While hopeful, I did not assume that the incidents had been connected – my stroking him and his subsequent arousal. Although I had never witnessed Mr. Wooster pleasuring himself in the bath in my previous years of service, that did not mean that it had never occurred, simply that he had been slightly more discreet. To test the hypothesis that my touches had brought about the situation, I made an effort to lavish him with what might be called ‘caresses’, if one were to look very closely, as I undressed him for the bath each morning over the course of the next two weeks.

I listened at the door for those small noises and was satisfied that I heard them every day. Then, at the start of the third week, I returned to a more mechanical and impersonal mode of disrobing my employer. Though it pained me, I withheld the physical affection I had offered before in order to gauge his response. I could not say that Mr. Wooster’s cheerful disposition was greatly impacted, but I did note that the noises came only once that week – after he had forced contact by contriving to stumble as he rose from his bed and grasped me for support. He also eyed me with more than the usual confusion as I went about my tasks in the flat.

Finally, I ended my self-imposed misery when he had approached me and asked, “I say, Jeeves, old chap... the young master hasn’t done anything to offend you, has he? I’ll be dashed if I can figure out what I’ve done, but you’ve been at your stuffiest stuffed frog all week. Terribly sorry for whatever it is, my man. You know how absolutely oblivious I can be sometimes, what?”

“Yes, sir,” I had replied with a heavy sigh before assuring him that he was not at fault, and that I simply had not been sleeping well due to an illness in the family. He apologized profusely for my troubles and tried to order me out of the flat to tend to my ailing relative’s bedside. I was able to convince him that the relative was no longer in serious danger and that I would be my usual self by tomorrow. We argued back and forth, and I finally assented to taking the night off so as not to raise his suspicions further.

Which brings me to what might be called the ‘present’ in this narrative. Mr. Wooster can provide a much more detailed and entertaining account for our personal records than I, so I will leave that to him. I will only add one final note: When Mr. Wooster confessed to me in the bathroom that day at Twing Hall that his arousal was a direct result of studying my form, although I put forth the mask of displeasure at his decision to wear his reprehensible plaid trousers, beneath that, I felt the greatest sense of joy one can imagine. It is always most gratifying to have one’s hypotheses proved correct.

~ Reginald Jeeves


	10. Chapter 8

Realizing that I would have to face Jeeves at some point, I squeezed my rubber d. one more time for good luck, gritted my teeth, and rose from the bath, drying myself off and wrapping a dressing gown around the freshly-scented Wooster frame. I would have liked to have strode out of the bathroom with my head held high, ordering Jeeves to fetch this or see to that, but I’m afraid I rather slinked, shuffling toward the bed with my eyes fairly glued to the floorboards. I sat down on the b. and watched as Jeeves’ feet tracked into the bathroom and heard the quiet _shloup!_ of the tub draining seconds later. Then, the Jeevesian feet had returned, eerily silent as they shimmered across the floor.

“Mr. Wooster?” Good Lord. I was in for it, but this was what I’d wanted. Still, did a bit of a tiff over one’s trousers and what constitutes discussionable material warrant calling me ‘Mr. Wooster’ to my face? Seemed dashed excessive.

“Yes, Jeeves?” I asked, picking at a loose string on the bedspread.

“Did you intend to dress, sir?”

“Oh.” I cast my eye over the togs for the day. To his credit, Jeeves had managed to find a goldenrod waistcoat and jacket, and a dark green tie and socks that matched the color scheme of my trousers. “Yes, I suppose I should. Um... could you just... Jeeves...” I motioned helplessly with my hands, but paragon that he is, he understood immediately.

“I will be in the bathroom, sir,” he said. “Please call when you require my assistance.”

“Righto!” Jolly decent of the fellow to remove himself from the room instead of just facing the wall. I recalled the not-terribly-distant past when I had been moved by the Jeevesian backside and wasn’t keen on repeating the performance, especially with how frustrating it had been when certain parts of the Wooster corpus that had sprung to attention like those chappies on parade had decided they weren’t actually all for it, and had returned to the at-ease stance. Before I could trip aboard that train of thought again, I hopped back off at the station of Good Sense and made toward the intersection of La Rue Ne Soyez Pas and Le Boulevard Un Grand Chump, and began pulling on my undergarments.

Once I had tightened the garters on my socks, pulled my undervest down and my pants and trousers up, I summoned Jeeves with an ‘Er... right, then. Ready!’ He oozed in and proceeded to dress me with the professional detachment of one schooled in the arts of valeting. It was efficient, it was precise, and it was missing some indefinable thingness that made it feel off, like a stranger had been called in to replace Jeeves in this particular task.

I shuddered to think of my previous valets, or worse yet, some filly I’d be calling my wife one day, dressing me up. Agatha could have her dashed silly notions, but this Wooster knows when to stand firm and when to bow. On matters familial, I bowed like a stalk of wheat in a tornado. It was only Jeeves’ fish-fed brain that had kept me out of the matrimonial soup for so long. Closing in on thirty – as everyone was so keen to remind me this weekend – I knew I’d be donning the top hat and spongebag trousers sooner rather than later. Really a pity, though. I did like the idea of a merry bachelor’s life for myself and Jeeves... if he’d consent to it, of course. I wouldn’t want to go putting a _nolle prosequi_ on the man’s love-life. There had been that cook and that waitress he’d told me he’d had an understanding with, after all.

“I wonder whatever happened to that waitress girl you were seeing, Jeeves,” I said, trying for conversation as he finished the row of buttons on my shirt and draped a tie around my shoulders, knotting it at my throat.

“Sir?”

“You know.” I waved a hand noncommittally. “The one Bingo was in love with. Margaret, or something starting with an 'M'.”

“Mabel, sir. I assisted her in contracting a matrimonial alliance with a gentleman I am acquainted with through the Junior Ganymede Club.”

I blinked as he picked up my waistcoat and helped me into it before going at those buttons, as well. “What? You mean you two broke it off?”

“To tell the truth, sir, there was nothing to break off,” he admitted. “The understanding to which I alluded during that particular incident had more to do with finding the then-Ms. Sayers a suitable gentleman, rather than engaging in amorous activities.” 

“Ah... well. There you are.” And there I was, as well. All that was left was to tame the curly mop atop the Wooster lemon and toss on a spiffing pair of spats. I seated myself on the bed once more and Jeeves knelt to assist, until I realized this was a much-too-familiar posish. “It’s fine, Jeeves,” I assured hurriedly. “The young master can manage this bit on his own, what?”

“Very good, sir,” he replied in his soupiest voice, rising stiffly and proceeding to fold my pajamas as I fought with the laces.

“Now, Jeeves,” I began once I’d wrestled the bally l.’s into submission, “another chapter of Mrs. Christie’s manuscript, then we’ll pop downstairs for the requisite whatsit with all and sundry, and then up we come after tea. How does that sound?”

“As you wish, Mr. Wooster.” Well, if that couldn’t strike a blow to the Wooster spirits, then I don’t know what could.

After brushing my hair, shaving, and slapping on a bit of the manly eau de Wooster, I trudged over to the chair and took up the manuscript, feeling not a little put out, even with my absolutely topping new trousers on. I could already see the smile on Agatha’s face, though, when I told her I'd breezed through the manuscript in less than a day, which did well to put Bertram into the mood for a spot of thrills, chills, and Poirot’s insights on the matter. If I knew my retired detective chappies like I knew my Jeeveses, he’d be ferreting out the cold-blooded killer in three shakes of a barman’s shaker thingummy.

\--- --- ---

“Hah! I knew it!” I couldn’t help shouting, stabbing at the pages before me.

“Sir?” Jeeves had finished with my socks and had been doing... something with my ties for the past half-hour. I suspected he’d named them and was attempting to alphabetize them. That always takes me a bit of time – the alphabetizing, you understand, not the naming of ties.

“It’s this Parker chappie, the dead fellow’s butler – well, he wasn’t dead at the start of the story, but he is now, you see,” I explained. “Anyway, this Parker is getting to be a mighty suspicious fellow, and I like the look of this Ms. Bourne, the parlormaid. She’s positively stinking with impropriety, what? Still! Parker... Hmm... I can tell you, Jeeves, I’d lay money on that bird being the murderer.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“Indeed, Jeeves. He’s just a little too helpful, buttling about... And it’s always the butler.”

My man paused for a long moment, then said, “It is my experience, sir, that the domestic staff, while perhaps unhappy in their present situations, are rarely in the habit of murdering their employers, and often go to great lengths to appear helpful. It is, after all, a requirement of individuals employed in any capacity as a servant to serve.”

“I still smell a rat, Jeeves,” I protested. “You mark me, it’ll be Parker.”

“Would not the most likely suspect in the narrative be Mr. Ackroyd’s stepson, Ralph Paton, sir?” Jeeves returned. “While I suspect him to be what is referred to as a ‘red herring’ in the trade, several key pieces of evidence implicate him in the murder. Still, more likely in my mind, have you considered the–”

“Jeeves.” I stared at him, incre-whatsit coloring my tone and forcing the Wooster lips in a downward direction.

“Yes, sir?” He replied too promptly for me to be the only one to recognize his slip.

“Have you been reading Mrs. Christie’s manuscript?”

“I took the liberty of perusing the volume before waking you this morning and while you were bathing, sir.”

“Jeeves!” I cried, not a little shocked. “You weren’t supposed to read it!”

His eyebrow rose a fraction of an eighth of an inch. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, sir. Given that I have helped to edit your own volumes, I thought my insight might prove valuable to Mrs. Christie.”

“Pish!”

“Sir?” Now there was a distinct air of the scandalized about him.

“You just wanted to go snooping in Mrs. Christie’s manuscript and you knew if you didn’t ask you wouldn’t be told no.”

“Sir, I assure you, such was not my intention.”

“Of all the bally...” I growled, ignoring him and clutching the manuscript to my chest. Agatha had entrusted me, young Bertram, with the thing, not young Bertram and Jeeves. It had been special, secret, a secret I finally had from my man and now he’d gone and spoiled the surprise. The green-eyed whatsit stirred in the Wooster tum, and it wasn’t at all the pleasant feeling of his southern cousin, the other chap who turns the Wooster t. several shades of fluttery.

“I’m going out,” I announced, standing abruptly and stuffing the manuscript back into its envelope.

“Of course, sir,” Jeeves replied, as nonchalant about the young master’s agitation as ever. “Would you like to lock the manuscript in the desk?”

“No, I would not, Jeeves,” I said as I set the thing down on the d. in question so that my man could help me on with my coat. “I’ve seen you picking at locks, and I don’t want to see you looking at another page of this manuscript.”

“Sir, I would never–”

“I shall be taking the manuscript with me and reading it down by the lake,” I cut him off mid-protest. “At least beneath the shade of some tree or other, I shan’t have to worry about nosey valets biffing about where I can’t see them.”

He had stiffened considerably and for a moment, I entertained the idea of him actually boxing me around the ears as Tuppy had suggested. Jeeves is a marvel, though, and doesn’t need to resort to violence when he knows exactly where to poke a sharp stick with his words. “As you say, Mr. Wooster. I do apologize for acting in such a manner that you feel you can no longer trust me.”

I deflated, every last bit of fight whooshing out of me. It might have been easier if he’d just socked me in the belly. I knew how to gasp for air, but how does one go about refilling one’s metaphorical lungs?

“However,” he continued when I did not respond, merely hung my head like a chastised child. “Mrs. Christie indicated a desire that the manuscript should not leave your room. I could not advise taking it to the lake.”

How could I back down now, though? After my show of huffing and puffing, Jeeves would think me a spineless young clot if I gave in. I already had my relatives thinking that, I didn’t need my... valet – There had been another word I’d been about to use, but I threw it out the window of the mind as soon as it scuttled past, so that I barely had time to glimpse the blighter. – to think it, too.

“I’m going,” I mumbled, snatching up the manuscript, and fleeing before he could stop me with another reasonable-sounding argument.

Was this how beazels felt all the time? Up and down, and fluttery and sinking, all at once? It would certainly help to explain some of their more inexplicable behaviors. Why was I thinking about beazels? I meant to be thinking about Jeeves. No, not Jeeves. Thinking about Jeeves led to trouble. Roger Ackroyd and that suspicious snake of a butler, Parker. Those were the chaps I was thinking about. Where beazels came into that particular story, I couldn’t say, but I’m getting off point.

Agatha wouldn’t really mind if I popped down for a bit of the fresh stuff by the lake, would she? She’d merely been issuing guidelines. I’d just need to be careful not to get the manuscript wet. That should be simple enough, what? Not like I’m a chap to go falling into every open body of water out there. And really, what other dangers could a lake not six feet deep really pose to a chap so long as he kept out of the wet stuff?

Feeling considerably more chuffed, I sneaked out of Twing Hall undetected and hied myself to Ginny’s Lake.


	11. Chapter 9

I made my way down to the lake, whistling “47 Ginger Headed Sailors” as I went in a fit of nostalgia. It had been a popular number around the Drones a few years ago. Five years ago, to be precise. Five years, one month, and five days if you really wanted to quibble over such things. In any case, it had been _the_ thing when Jeeves had arrived on my doorstep. But how had I got ‘round to the subject of Jeeves again? The man can be bally ubiqui-whatsit – the one that means a chap is everywhere at once... ubiquitous – at the most inconvenient times. Then again, it would be a much more unhappy and much less bachelor-esque Bertram ankling about today without his valet to move in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform – the valet’s wonders that is, not Bertram’s.

It took fifteen minutes or so before Ginny’s Lake hove into view. Situated at the center of a copse of trees, it sported a fine little dock with boats tied neatly on either side, and the end left open for the enterprising fisherman. I saw a smattering of birds and beazels milling about, but none from the Wickhammersley’s party, so I found a comfy looking patch of the green stuff beneath a large willow and set myself to reading.

I had just reached the part where Poirot and Dr. Sheppard were having at that sneaky Parker for blackmailing his last master when a call of, “Hello, Bertie!” startled me.

I looked up and saw Stiffy charging toward me at full-steam with Bartholomew in tow. I made a mental note of the page number and shoved the manuscript into its envelope before standing.

“What ho, Stiffy!” I returned, waving to her. “I was wondering where Bartholomew had got to. Haven’t seen the little chap all weekend.”

“Lady Wickhammersley doesn’t like him, so I’ve had to keep him cooped up in my room since Thursday,” she explained, frowning, as I reached down to pet the four-legged fiend. “I can’t understand why. He’s just a bit enthusiastic sometimes.”

“Well... rather,” I said, withdrawing quickly when he growled and tried to bite my fingers off.

“Anyway, what _are_ you wearing?” she demanded, running a disapproving eye up and down the Wooster form. “I’m surprised Jeeves let you leave your room in that. He hasn’t given his notice, has he?”

“They are a spiffing pair of trousers,” I rejoined. “And no, Jeeves has _not_ given his notice. He acknowledges my sense of individuality and has the good grace to allow his master to wear what he will.”

Stiffy pulled a face that quite clearly said she thought I was barking, but that she would put up with me for now. “Walk with me, Bertie? Bartholomew and I were just going to go to the end of the dock.” She motioned in the appropriate direction, and we set off on the short trot to said d. “So, what have you got there?” she asked, nodding to the envelope tucked under my arm as we crossed the threshold from springy grass to groaning wood.

“Oh, ah, this?” I returned, shifting the manuscript to the other side, out of her direct line of sight. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Well, it’s _something_ , of course. Can’t really have a thing and have it be nothing. Unless you’re that Greek cove who tried to argue about tables and their existence and whatnot. Or something like that. I’ll have to ask Jeeves. He’d know about it. Very fond of the Greek stuff – Jeeves that is, not me, though I can’t rightly say that I’m not a fan, just that I don’t know... quite as much...?” I trailed off, suddenly feeling a blush creeping toward my cheeks for no particular reason.

Stiffy considered me for a moment, eyebrow raised askance, then she seemed to shrug off my fit of babbling and continued on point, “It’s some sort of book, isn’t it? I saw you reading.”

“Well, it’s a funny thing, that. Depends on how you define book.” We had reached the last plank and stopped, staring out at the water and sun-induced sparkles lighting its surface.

“Whose is it?” she pressed. “You looked to be enjoying it.”

“It could be one of my books,” I deflected cleverly. “The latest manuscript, you know?”

“So, it’s a _manuscript_?” Stiffy’s maw split once more into that predatory grin. “Come now, Bertie. You wouldn’t look like that reading your own manuscript. They’re not nearly that engaging.”

“I say!” I I-sayed her. “I’ll have you know that _some_ people quite enjoy my books.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. I’m sure there are those out there who find your rambling on to be quite sweet – Madeline springs to mind. I’m more interested in that thing you’ve got behind your back, though. Come along and tell me who it belongs to.” She pouted, her lower lip jutting out and her eyebrows drawing together. What is a _preux chevalier_ to do in the face of such... well, faces?

“If you _must_ know,” I relented, bringing it out into view again, “it belongs to Agatha. It’s her latest that she’ll be sending off to her publisher sometime in the next week.”

“Agatha Christie’s new novel?” I had to step back carefully, mindful of the edge, as Stiffy lunged for me.

“Steady on now!”

“Bertie, you have to let me see that manuscript!” Bartholomew yapped his agreement, but I held firm, clutching the m. in question to my chest.

“I’m sorry, Stiffy, but I promised Agatha I wouldn’t let another soul set hand, eye, or any other piece of anatomy upon it, and we Woosters keep our word to the bitter end.”

“Oh, but Bertie, we’re such good friends,” she pleaded. “Couldn’t I just have a little peek? Think of all we’ve been through together.”

“You mean all you’ve put _me_ through?”

“Don’t be such a prat! I never forced you to do anything.” 

“Hah! Hah, I say to you, my dear Ms. Byng... with a derisive snort for emphasis! If you really believe that’s the case, then you have an even worse memory than Biffy Biffen. And let me tell you, that is saying something.”

“You know, Bertie, Angela’s still awfully upset at you about Tuppy,” she said, switching tacks.

I narrowed my gaze. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I was just thinking,” she purred, edging closer as I edged away as much as the dock would allow, “that if I were to say something to her, put in a good word, you might be able to convince her it was all just some silly misunderstanding. And maybe, she’d even see sense about Hildebrand. We could work together on it.”

The offer was a tempting one. “The offer is a tempting one, Stiffy,” I acknowledged, “but we Woosters have our Code. Even the thought of reuniting two lovers torn asunder cannot move us to break our word. No, I’m sorry, but that’s my final answer. I shall deal with Tuppy and Angela on my own.”

“But Bertie, you _need_ me,” she protested.

“Stiffy, I need you like I need a metal pole in my hands whilst standing atop the Woolworth building in a lightning storm.”

Her plaintive features melted into a scowl of discontent. I gulped, but having reached the end of the dock, and with her and Bartholomew blocking the way, I didn’t have anywhere to retreat to save the bottom of Ginny’s Lake.

“You know something else, Bertie?” She didn’t pause to let me reply. “It’s amazing the sorts of things one overhears while walking in the garden during the evening.”

“Indeed?” I stared at her warily, uncertain where this new line was leading, but I’d be dashed if I could say that it was anywhere good.

“Yes. You see, I always find it suspicious when a gentleman and lady, both unwed and unattached, go sneaking off somewhere together, and I just can’t help wondering what sorts of things they might be up to. Propriety demands that such rendezvous be monitored to ensure that nothing untoward happens.”

I liked this line even less than I had before. “Does it, now?”

“Quite, Bertie. Quite.” She nodded. “You see, it was just yesterday that I heard you, Cynthia, and Jeeves discussing the most _extraordinary_ plans. I’m not surprised she agreed to it so readily, but you? You’re either very foolish or very cruel.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, not a little confused.

“Didn’t you know? Oh, but then how could you? Or anyone, really?” The grin had returned, and I felt just a bit like a cornered mouse faced with a cat whose daily meals for the last week had consisted of water and one or two out-of-date sardines. “I only know about it because I just happened to overhear Lady Wickhammersley talking to your Aunt Agatha on the telephone the night that I got in. You’re Cynthia’s last chance for an amicable arrangement, Bertie. If you two don’t work out, Lady Wickhammersley’s going to sack dear Mr. Chilcott and send Cynthia to marry some horrid old fellow in India named Braxton. Still, it might not be so bad. I hear he beat his first wife, but at fifty, I’m sure he can’t do quite as much damage with a cane as he used to.”

“ _Stiffy_!” I cried, eyes bugging out, and jaw fairly slamming into the dock. “You... how could... there’s no... You wouldn’t let that happen to Cynthia!”

“It’s not up to _me_ , Bertie,” she said, the poison dripping from her sweet lips like honey. “It’s really all down to you. But... if you were to let me read the first chapter of Mrs. Christie’s manuscript, I _might_ be able to keep quiet while you and Jeeves figure out how to oil out of this little mess you’ve made.”

My head was spinning, and not in that pleasant sort of way that happens when Jeeves deigns to grace me with his little half-amused smiles. Cynthia and Chilcott were doomed, and so was I. Whatever I did, biffing off back to London or staying and marrying Cynthia would lead to her being separated from the man she loved. And if I _did_ stay, there was a good chance Bertram’s body would be separated from the liver it loved if George Chilcott’s eagles had anything to say in the matter.

“S-Stiffy,” I stuttered, utterly at a loss, but hoping that I might be able to appeal to her better nature. “You can’t really mean to say that you’d throw Cynthia and me to the wolves over a little manuscript.”

“Bertie, you can’t really mean to say that you’d let it happen over a little manuscript,” she mocked, not batting an eyelash.

The Code of the Woosters demanded that I keep my word to Agatha, but it also demanded that I prevent a pair of innocent lovers from falling apart on my account. I wrestled with the decision until it felt like my head would burst.

“All right. All right,” I mumbled, shoulders sagging and lower lip trembling just the tiniest bit. “You win, Stiffy. I’ll let you read the first chapter, but you have to promise you’ll give it right back.”

“Oh, you have my word, Bertie!” she crowed. “Now just toss that envelope here like the darling little lamb you are. You have no idea how happy I am that you’ve seen sense, Bertie. Isn’t it wonderful, Bartholomew?”

Bartholomew growled, straining at his leash in my direction. “Ah... Stiffy, do you think you could call the little chap there off? Makes one a bit nervous, what?”

“He’s only having some fun, Bertie. And besides, we wouldn’t want you running off anywhere before you give me that manuscript.”

“Stiffy, you can’t offer to help me, then blackmail me, and _then_ threaten me with canine retribution! That’s-that’s the absolute bally limit!”

“I’ll do what I like, Bertie Wooster.” She tossed her hair like one of those wretched beazels from Rosie’s novels. “The manuscript.”

Saying a silent apology to Agatha, I made sure to secure the top of the envelope, then tossed the thing to Stiffy. She caught it with both hands... which left Bartholomew free.

With a snarl to rival that three-headed chappie who guards the gates to the Underwhatsit, the little monster leapt forward, attaching himself to this Wooster’s leg. I yelped manfully in response and tried to shake him off even as I heard the distinct _shurrk!_ of fabric ripping.

“Stiffy! Stop him! Yeowch!” I shrieked, flailing about until I found that thin air is a very poor substitute when it comes to supporting a chap’s weight as compared to a solid plank of wood.

“Bartholomew, come!” she ordered just as gravity latched onto me, ignoring my pin-wheeling arms and drawing me inexorably downward.

The impact as I crashed into the placid surface of Ginny’s Lake forced the air from my lungs, and I clawed madly at the water as my head went under. I came up sputtering, gasping for breath, and found myself chest-deep in the wet stuff. I looked up to the dock to give Stiffy a piece of my mind, but it was empty. I gaped, then scanned the shoreline and saw a black fuzzy tail and a bush of brown hair disappearing into the trees.

“ _Stephanie Ophelia Byng_ , you lying little... _argh_!” I raged, slamming my fists into the water for good measure. I could find no adjective censorious enough, no noun with which to convey my complete and utter loathing. That I had trusted her for even a moment – this woman who had shown time and time again that she had no regard for my well-being, physical or otherwise – only further stoked the flames in the Wooster tum. From these had erupted a fire-breathing dragon who was, even now, filling the Wooster onion with more than a few impolite thoughts involving fists and their making an intimate acquaintance of a certain person’s ears, chin, and stomach.

My temper tantrum – for what else could a chap call it when he stood, thrashing about, fully-clothed, in the middle of a lake, splashing the water every which way, and snarling at himself, the passersby, the birds, the sun, and really just about everything within easy snarling range – ended about three minutes later. Having exhausted every curse I could think of, and even a few I had invented on the spot, I slogged through the muck and pulled myself onto the shore to assess the full damage Stiffy and her hellhound had wrought upon the Wooster _corpus_.

The trousers were the hardest-hit casualty. Bartholomew had gone for the inseam, splitting it up past my knee. Talking of flesh, I noticed that the brute had actually had the bally nerve to sink his teeth into my calf so far as to draw blood. Other than that, I felt roughly two steps removed from a drowned squirrel, but was otherwise unharmed.

“Well, Bertram, what are we to do?” I asked myself.

“Ask Jeeves,” I replied promptly.

“Right, well, but then he’ll get that little smirk of his that fairly shouts ‘I told you so’, what?” I argued.

“Yes, but ‘tis better to suffer the blow to one’s ego than the loss of one’s head when Agatha finds out what’s happened. Not to mention Cynthia and Chilcott.”

“You talking to me, mister?” an unfamiliar voice broke into my monologue.

It was then that I noticed a fair-haired youth, his trousers rolled up to his knees, just a little way down the embankment. He had a fishing rod in one hand and a wicker basket in the other. It was a delightfully quaint picture, something those painter chappies would run laps for, but the effect was rather ruined by the suspicious glare spread across the lad’s map. Well, of course he’d be casting his leery eye Wooster-ward. I must have sounded absolutely barmy chatting with myself.

“Er... no. Sorry. Just having it out with good old left and right brains, what? Never hurts to take both sides on an issue.”

He now looked positively alarmed and had begun backing away with the cunning subtlety of burglar wearing bells.

“I’ll just be off then, shall I?” He nodded mechanically and flinched when I passed him by, squishing in my soggy spats.

The journey back to Twing Hall took considerably longer than the stroll down, not the least because a ball of uncertainty and fear had begun to collect in my tum where once the dragon had rampaged. I had really bungled this one, and I wasn’t sure that even Jeeves’ enormous brain could fix it, providing he was willing to bend said e. b. to the problem. With the way I’d been treating him as of late, jolly and spiteful all in the same sentence, I couldn’t be certain that my man wouldn’t simply scoff and tell me to go and boil my head.

“Bertie!” Stinker’s voice roused me from my fretting, and as I looked at him and the Wooster lemon connected him with his fiancée, a spark of the old ire flickered. “Great Scots, Bertie, what happened?” I looked around and saw that we were stationed outside the front of Twing Hall, though it did not occur to me to ask why Stinker was out front instead of socializing in the garden at the back of the house. “Did you fall in the lake? Stiffy just got back and–”

“Stinker,” I interrupted, raising a hand to silence him, “I hold you in the highest regard, and respect you as both a former schoolboy chum and a man of the cloth, but until you tell that... that _female_ to whom you’re engaged that she should take four or five steps beyond the edge of a sharpish drop off, I shouldn’t like to talk to you.”

So saying, I marched past him, nose stuck in the air as only a blue-blooded Englishman can stick – his nose, that is. I needed Jeeves. More than that, I wanted him, and not in an altogether proper way. Unfortunately, I did not have the resolve left in me to keep my thoughts from straying down those glittering alleyways and into the Red Lights.


	12. Chapter 10

“Good afternoon, Mr. Wooster,” Woolwine greeted as I trudged through the entryway, both of us studiously ignoring the fact that I was dripping all over the carpet. “Would you like me to fetch Mr. Jeeves? He offered to assist in serving drinks and _hors d’oeuvres_ in the garden.”

“Thank you, Woolwine,” I acknowledged, holding myself as if I _weren’t_ dripping all over the carpet. “Tell him to meet me in my room, would you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

This somewhat-awkward exchange dealt with, I hied myself upstairs with the vigor of an octopus who’s just lost seven of his legs to a tyrannous hammerhead shark, and subsequently been informed that his favored seahorse at the races has come down with a spot of the shakes and shivers just before opening day. In my room, I pulled off my coat and had just started on the waistcoat buttons when I heard the sheep-like cough of my valet.

“I trust your visit to the lake was a stimulating one, Mr. Wooster?”

I turned around to face him, feeling a slight burn about the ocular region and a manful tremble of the lower lip. In that moment, I would have given my right hand for him to step forward, wrap me in his capable arms, and tell me that he would do all in his power to make everything better... and the proper feudal spirit be dashed to the bygone age in which it belonged! While no hugs were forthcoming, my man’s visage melted from chilled steel to almost-tepid in an instant, a slight frown creasing his brow as he moved to take over undressing me.

“What has happened, sir?” he asked, blue eyes capturing my own as I told him how Stiffy had accosted me and stolen the manuscript before unleashing Bartholomew and his four-legged wrath upon the Wooster _corpus_. “This is most disturbing, sir,” he concluded at the end of my explanation.

“Disturbing, Jeeves? No. Not at all,” I argued as he unhooked my braces, pulled off my tie and began working his way down the buttons on my shirt. “Setting a shovel to soil, possibly running at a flock of starlings in a field, or even singing gaily at two in the ack emma as you stumble down the street after one too many cocktails, might be classed as ‘disturbing’. _This_ is positively disastrous! And I must say that the events of this afternoon have left the young master firmly convinced that Stiffy Byng is a girl akin to barbed wire: brilliant, persistent when she’s caught you, hard all the way through, and liable to leave scars on any chap who so much as looks at her.”

“A somewhat cynical, though not entirely inaccurate assessment of the young lady’s character, sir.” I dropped my arms back so that he could peel off my shirt. Even in the warmth of the day, a shiver ran up my spine as the air touched my bare skin. “We can continue the discussion once your comfort has been seen to, sir. Shall I run the bath while you finish disrobing?” he queried, a new wave of concern crashing over his features.

“ _No_!” I managed to restrain myself from reaching out to grasp his hand as he started to pull away. “I-I mean, no, Jeeves. These... ah... trousers. My fingers are still a bit slippery, and you know how dashed tricky trousers can be, what?” It was a dreadfully obvious ploy, but I couldn’t help myself thinking how pleasant it would be after such a trying experience for my man to run his hands a bit farther south on the Wooster anatomy.

His eyebrow rose a molecule or two at my reaction, but there was that certain thingness in his voice as he very good-sirred me that banished all worries from my mind for a moment and sent shivers of the warm and tingly sort shooting to all of the Wooster extremities.

He stepped close again, his eyes never leaving mine as he reached down, hands settling on my hips before sliding up a bit and inward to my flies.

“Qu-quite impressive being able to de-trouser a fellow without looking, Jeeves,” I complimented, licking my suddenly-dry lips.

“A skill perfected in the event that a gentleman wishes to disrobe in poorly lit circumstances, sir,” he explained, and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

“Why would a chap want to undress in the dark, Jeeves?”

“There are countless contingencies which might occasion such a situation, sir.” His fingers brushed just below my navel as he undid the top button, and I felt the almost overpowering urge to press closer to him. “For instance,” he continued, taking his time with the second button, “after a night on the town, a gentleman may return home quite inebriated and sensitive to light.” I found my arms rising of their own accord then, and I set them on his shoulders.

“Sir.” I’m sure it was meant to be a question, but the way he said it, his eyes half-lidded and a tiny quirk of his mouth, seemed to indicate he knew exactly what the young master was doing. It would have been helpful if he could’ve clued the y.m. in, as well, because I certainly couldn’t have told you what I was on about. Gentlemen don’t generally go about placing their arms on their valet’s shoulders with the intention of doing... something-or-other that would come to them in the heat of the moment.

“J-Jeeves, I’m not–”

“Bertie are you in there?” I sprang away from my man like a startled gazelle at the heavy knocking upon my bedroom door. Unfortunately, the backs of my legs collided with the bed and I tipped over, sprawling gracelessly across the linens. I scrambled to sit up, raising my head to gape at Jeeves, but he was at the door already, cracking it open just a sliver.

“I apologize, Mr. Little, but Mr. Wooster is undressing for the bath. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh,” Bingo said. “Oh, no, Jeeves. It’s only... Stinker told me he’d seen Bertie just a few minutes ago, soaking wet and going on about Stiffy jumping off a cliff.”

“Mr. Wooster had an unfortunate encounter with Ms. Byng down by Ginny’s Lake, sir.”

“Is he all right?”

“The events seem to have left him quite distressed, sir,” Jeeves related. “I am certain that he will be able to explain the situation to you once he is sufficiently recovered, though. If you will excuse me, sir, I should attend to Mr. Wooster at present.”

“Oh, right you are, Jeeves,” Bingo returned. “I don’t mean to keep you, just... tell Bertie I hope he’s better soon. Mrs. Christie’s been looking for him.”

“I shall inform him directly, sir.” With that, Jeeves shut the door and turned back to me. Whatever whatsit had been between us had dissipated, though. He stepped toward me, and I hastened to put the bed between us, hands moving to cover the bulge in my trousers.

His brows drew together in the most heart-wrenching way, and I almost relented. There were other things to worry about at the moment, though. Things that needed my attention like the hummingbird needs his flowers. This confusion about Jeeves and wanting to do all sorts of strange things to him could file itself away for another day when I didn’t have to worry about being married off to Cynthia Wickhammersley, or murdered by an angry authoress with a keen sense of how to cover up a heinous crime.

“Mr. Little wishes you a swift recovery, sir,” Jeeves informed me. “I will tend to the bath now.” And he biffed off just like that.

I wrapped myself in my dressing gown after shucking the rest of my garments, grimacing at the trickle of red running down my leg where Bartholomew had sunk his fangs in. Jeeves’ only comment as I entered the bathroom, the water ready and waiting for Bertram’s abused person, was, “I will fetch the appropriate medical supplies, sir.” He shimmered away, and I took the opportunity to lower myself into the water and deal with the other minor medical condition I had been enduring since Jeeves had started to unbutton my trousers.

I took my time in the warm and wet, squeezing my ducky for comfort in between washing off the lake muck that had managed to accumulate during my short sojourn in the cold and wet. Once I had relaxed to the point where I felt I could face the trials ahead of me, and the water had gone a somewhat pinkish hue that I didn’t think was altogether sanitary, I pulled myself out, rubbed myself dry, and wrapped my gown around me once more.

Jeeves was waiting for me in the bedroom and had me sit in the armchair so that he could bandage my calf before draining the tub. I found myself still a bit cold, even after my soak, so Jeeves returned with a basin of steaming water and a blanket, which, I believe, brings us to the beginning of this little tale – well, not the beginning, but the place where I started it, which was really the middle. In any case, just so you don’t have to flip back to the prologue, here’s a recap of that bit:

Bertram laments about the situation re: Agatha’s manuscript and Stiffy’s theft of said m. Jeeves makes a snide remark regarding Bertram’s trousers and their loss to the tooth of Stiffy’s miniature demon in dog-form. Bertram’s powerful glare of Woosterly-whatsit is wasted as his man fixes him a drink. Bertram chides Jeeves about his pressing for a new set of gray trousers before we finally return to the more important matter: the manuscript.

“If I might make the suggestion, sir,” Jeeves continued from what would have been the last bit of conversation, “could you not simply enter into Ms. Byng’s room and recover the manuscript while she is otherwise occupied?”

“Ah...” I realized I’d left out a rather key part of the story I’d told to Jeeves. “Well, there’s a hitch, Jeeves, and a decidedly rummy one at that.” I explained the circs re: Cynthia, Chilcott, Lady Wickhammersley, the chappie in India, and self. Jeeves’ face grew progressively colder as I related the whole sorry tale until he was looking positively glacial at the end.

“Ms. Byng used this information to extract the manuscript from your possession, sir?” he asked, the stuffed frog in full effect, though, thankfully, not directed at me.

“Yes, Jeeves,” I affirmed. “The blasted girl could give those siren thingummies that Greek fellow wrote about a run for their money.” It occurred to me that Greeks had been coming into the conversation quite a lot lately. Not a bad civilization, mind you, gave us sport and the like, but there was something about them that I couldn’t quite recall that was German – Hold on a moment, that’s not right. Germane! – _germane_ to at least one of the problems knocking around the Wooster lemon. I’d be dashed if I could say which, though.

“Homer, sir,” he supplied, but I could tell that his mind was otherwise occupied as it came in an afterthought-ish sort of tone, and he did not carry on with a more detailed account of just who Homer was, where the idea of the sirens had come from, and which particular improving books I might want to read to learn more.

I waited a few more seconds, sipping my w. and s. before prompting, “Any corkers stirring about the Jeevesian gray matter, then?”

He drew in a deep breath, pursing his lips in a way that made me want to do something quite unmentionable.

“Modesty forbids, sir,” he said, “but a thought does occur. However, I am uncertain you would be willing to pursue this particular course as it may cast Ms. Byng into some disrepute amongst your acquaintances.”

“Jeeves,” I began, prodding at the bandage around my leg once more, “whatever it is, I shall be happy to pursue it as the hound pursues the fox if it will lead to Ms. Byng getting what’s coming to her. We Woosters have our Code, and somewhere in the fine print, I’m fairly certain it has one of those loopy-whatsits for young ladies who go about threatening marriage for other ladies to fifty-year-old gentlemen who would beat them should a Wooster not comply with the first y.l.’s demands.”

“Indeed, sir. I shall make the appropriate preparations in that case.”

“See that you do, Jeeves,” I agreed. “See that you do.”


	13. Chapter 11

Jeeves had laid out a new set of togs for me at some point, and offered to assist me into them once I’d downed another w. and s., and he’d laid the basics of his scheme before me. I was sorely tempted to say yes, but the Wooster gray matter kicked in and informed me that this would be an altogether silly decision given the way my heart decided to start doing the impression of a coronary victim whenever my man set hands to the Wooster _corpus_.

“It’s fine, Jeeves,” I assured him, standing from the armchair and stretching a bit. He made no move to hide the positively predatory gleam in his gaze as he ran his eyes up and down my dressing gown bedecked frame. This wasn’t the same sort of predatory as Stiffy or Lady Wickhammersley, though. It was a predator that promised his prey would thoroughly enjoy what it had coming. I blushed and pulled the thin layer of fabric tighter, which only accomplished the opposite of what I wanted. “R-really! Away to prepare your whatsit for Stiffy now. You know what Scotland’s favorite son said about plans, and mice throwing them into the soup, what?”

“Sir...” The predator had been subverted by the exasperated tutor. “I believe you are referring to the line from Mr. Robert Burns’ poem ‘To a Mouse’, which reads more appropriately as:

“ _But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,  
In proving foresight may be vain:  
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men  
Gang aft agley,  
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,  
For promis'd joy!_"

“Yes, Jeeves.” I nodded quickly. “That’s the chap and the thingummy with the whatsit. The point stands, though. Off you go. The young master is perfectly capable of dressing himself.”

He raised a very dubious ebony brow at me.

“Don’t waggle your eyebrows at me, Jeeves. I’ll have you know that I manage to function perfectly well every year when you go on holiday,” I huffed. “Ask anyone you’d like, and they’ll tell you that Bertram is to be seen ankling about London with his shirt and trousers buttoned, his tie on straight, and his hat set at an appropriately jaunty angle!”

“Yes, sir.” I crossed my arms and raised my chin in triumph. “I have inquired as such from my acquaintances in the city following any prolonged absence, and have been informed that, although no criminal laws have been breached, you have perpetrated numerous ‘crimes against fashion’. I can only surmise that you have misplaced, on more than one occasion, the instructive notes which I have left to guide you in your choice of the most appropriate garments for a given two-week period.”

“Your acquaintances obviously have no sense of adventure, Jeeves.”

“While much of your more-colorful collection of socks and ties might be classed as ‘adventuresome’, sir, I hardly think a magenta waistcoat could be called anything short of an ‘aberration’.”

“Jeeves, I do not want to argue about clothes! I just want to get dressed without having to worry about certain parts of the Wooster anat–” I cut myself short, but I knew I’d gone too far as the corner of Jeeves’ lips twitched upward for a moment.

“I understand perfectly, sir. If you will excuse me.” He glided to the door and was gone with a tiny click.

I let loose a lungful of air I hadn’t known I’d been holding and quickly set about dressing. It took quite a bit longer than it would have if I’d had Jeeves’ capable fingers doing up my buttons, but it was thankfully less stimulating than it would have been otherwise.

“I’m not sure how much more of this up-down business I can take,” I told my reflection as I brushed my hair back into a state resembling order. Once more presentable – even by Jeevesian standards – I shrugged into my jacket and trotted downstairs and out the back to the garden. Lady Wickhammersley descended on me as the hawk upon the dormouse.

“Where have you been all morning, Mr. Wooster?” she demanded, her talons sinking into the fabric on my upper right arm. “Surely you didn’t mean to leave your fiancée alone all this time?”

“Oh... ah... just a bit under the weather, you know? These spring colds and whatnot?” I tried to laugh, but she narrowed her eyes at me.

“Mr. Wooster, if I so much as catch a whiff of that yellow hide of yours backing out of this, I shall not be responsible for my actions. Cynthia _must_ be married. Twenty-four is far too old for a girl of her standing to remain unattached.”

“Well, quite,” I agreed for lack of a better reply.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Mr. Wooster.” Lady Wickhammersley’s grin as she brushed her fingers through my hair set my teeth on edge. “At least the grandchildren will be pretty... though not particularly bright.”

And with this horrifying pronouncement, she detached herself and slinked away to stalk some other unsuspecting victim.

I, in the meanwhile, spotted Cynthia and started toward her. However, I was waylaid once more as Sticky and Thumper hove into view.

“Hullo, Bertie!” Sticky greeted.

“Bingo and Stinker told us you were all wet,” Thumper added.

“But you seem awfully dry,” Sticky concluded, scratching his head. “Could they have got you mixed up with someone else?”

“You haven’t been chumming about with my cousins Claude and Eustace have you?” I asked with a sigh. They both blinked at me in confusion, and I waved my hand dismissively. “Nevermind. Was there something you needed from me?”

“Oh, yes, quite!” Thumper’s ear-splitting grin made my own cheeks hurt. “You seem to have made very good friends with that Agatha Christie. Sticky was hoping you’d put in the good word for him, seeing as she turned him down the other day.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You know that she’s married? She was really quite explicit about it as I recall. Let you hold the ring and everything, what?”

“That’s not long to last from what I’ve heard.” Thumper’s grin degraded into a rather disturbing leer. “Colonel Christie’s found himself a newer, younger filly, leaving Mrs. Agatha Christie and child to fend for themselves. Can you imagine it, though? If you were Agatha Christie’s husband, you’d get to read all her novels ahead of publication! Oh, Bertie, be a chum!”

I drew myself up, calling upon all the memories from my youth of auntly ire as I bristled before the young Pumphrey-Devereuxs. “Sticky, Thumper, I haven’t the faintest glimmering of an idea what you lot prattle about in Herefordshire, but in the more civilized portions of His Majesty’s realm, we do not gossip within hearing distance of persons whose marriages are in the most dire of straits. Especially when said d.s.’s are of the sort that can only bring pain and misery upon the persons involved.” I straightened my jacket and nodded curtly to each of them. “Good day to you, gentlemen.” I brushed past them, their mouths agape, and continued toward my faux-fiancée.

“Bertie, wait!” I stopped and turned sharply on my heel to glare at the pair of country nobles I’d just dressed down. They both hung their heads in a properly chastised manner. “Please don’t go away cross and thinking the absolute worst of us, old fruit,” Thumper pleaded. “It’s only... well, when you live in Herefordshire, you aren’t treated to much variation in the scenery. So, when you’re faced with a nice piece of scenery, a very nice piece of scenery that’s dreadfully entertaining, you can’t help but wonder if you might be able to take a bit of that home with you. You can understand that, right?”

“Not in the least,” I returned, the chilliest of chilled steel. “Those who would make use of another’s serious and lasting misfortune to their own advantage are absolute rotters in this Wooster’s opinion.”

They both winced, and I felt some of the frost melting away. They were still a bit young and silly, and they weren’t as well versed on society manners as others I knew, so it was somewhat understandable.

“It must get lonely out in Herefordshire, though,” I allowed. “I suppose wanting a chum or two to roam with hither and yon across the plains is something any chap can appreciate.”

“Oh, quite. Quite!” Sticky agreed, bobbing his head up and down so vigorously I worried it might fall off. “There’s really only the dogs for friends out there.”

“Dogs?” I perked up.

“Didn’t I mention the other night?” Thumper squinted upward, stroking his chin in thought. He shrugged after a few seconds. “Our family owns the premier kennel for foxhounds in the country. It’s one of the reasons Lord Wickhammersley invited us up. Our father wanted us to learn a bit about falconry as raptors are up-and-comers in the fox hunting game, and Lord Wickhammersley’s interested in starting his own, proper hunt.”

“Well, well, well.” I couldn’t help the smile creeping across my face. I’d meant to wrangle Bingo into that particular part of the plot, but this would be even better. “So you chaps like dogs?”

“Bit hard not to growing up with six hundred or so,” Sticky laughed.

“Right, I was wondering if you might do something for me tomorrow morning while we’re all at breakfast, then...” I explained the necessary bits and they agreed readily.

“Always up for getting the better of a willful filly, Bertie, old chum,” Thumper assured with a chuckle. “Father’s always told us that women are like horses: 'You have to back them before you can ride.' Seems like we’ll be doing your mate Stinker a good turn in that direction.”

Having it put that way did dampen the Wooster spirits, but I waved them off with a thank you and conspir-whatsit wink. As I watched them go, I fidgeted, uncomfortably aware, now that my anger about the dousing I’d received had waned, that I was about to walk down a path that would make a young lady look quite bad. I had mentioned the loopy-thingummy to Jeeves in the Code of the Woosters, but it had been a bit of nonsense made up on the spot to comfort me as I’d ordered my man to do his worst.

“There you are, Bertie!” I turned, quickly reorganizing my map into a smile.

“What ho, Agatha, old fruit! How are you doing this warm day in the failing light of May’s bloom?”

She snorted. “I think you’ve been reading too much, Bertie. You’re talking poetry at me.” Her eyes lit up. “And talking of reading, what do you think so far? Where are you at? I’m nearly finished with the last two chapters, so we can trade out tomorrow morning after breakfast, and you can finish it before you leave.”

“Th-that’s sounds absolutely spiffing, old top!” I tried to keep my key somewhere in the bass cleft, but I’m afraid I rather squeaked toward the upper ranges of the treble.

A mask of concern colored her visage immediately. “What’s the matter, Bertie? Is there something wrong with the manuscript?” Now she was wringing her hands a bit in a way that was very familiar to me. “You haven’t figured it out, have you? I thought Mr. Jeeves might, but he’s a marvel, and I...”

“No, no! Nothing wrong with the manuscript. Still as mysterious as ever,” I assured her, gulping back my own fear at being found out. “It’s ah... well, I-I had a bit of trouble by the lake this morning.”

She relaxed, her posture losing its rigidity as she offered a wry smile. “So I heard. Ms. Byng and her dog, right?”

“Quite right!” I nodded. “She set the fiend on me and destroyed the most spiffing pair of plaid trousers I’d meant to show you today.” I ranted a bit about the merits of plaid trousers and dog-catchers before returning to the manuscript and offering what advice I could based on the chapters I’d read. “I noticed old Hector Blunt changed ranks to colonel somewhere around Chapter Fourteen before going back to major in the next chapter. I think that was the most obvious whatsit,” I related. “Probably something your editor would’ve found, though. Sorry I’m not being terribly helpful.”

Agatha had briefly covered her face with her hand as I said this, then shook her head. “No, this is great, Bertie! This version of the manuscript has actually been through an editor already. I’m just going back one last time. I’m shocked none of us caught that, but... well, you know how it is.”

“Indeed.” I nodded. “You read something enough times and you start to see what you want instead of what’s actually there. I have Jeeves edit my manuscripts for the same reason.”

“Exactly.” She sighed, smile tilting toward the melancholy. “What I wouldn’t give for a Mr. Jeeves of my own. Archie’s not really interested, though he’d make a show of it whenever we went out to parties.”

“Between you and me,” I said, trying to cheer her up. “I think Jeeves just likes reading about how marvelous I think he is. Bang out a short story or two with Colonel Christie as the hero, and he’ll be champing at the bit to read the next volume.”

That got a laugh out of her, and her eyes radiated the warmth they should always have. “Yes, it seems we both chose men who aren’t satisfied unless they’re fishing us out of the soup at every other turn.”

“Hah! Isn’t that the truth of it? Sometimes I think Jeeves must see me as some sort of damsel... in...” I blinked as the full implication of what Agatha had just said sunk into the Wooster onion. “I’m sorry, Agatha, but _what_ was that about us ‘choosing our men’?”

She pulled off coy innocence about as well as a black cat with white paint on his paws loitering beside a freshly-painted park bench. “I only meant I chose a husband, and you chose a valet, Bertie. What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing at all,” I replied, eyeing her with no little suspicion as she nibbled at a crab cake she’d procured from one of the servers who’d popped by in the course of our conversation.

“Anyway, I won’t keep you,” she continued, “and I need to get back to editing. I can’t wait for you to finish the manuscript Bertie!”

“Aha... yes. W-well, you and me both.” She paused at my stuttering and narrowed her gaze.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else wrong, Bertie?”

“Wrong? Oh, nothing! Nothing wrong at all, Agatha, old fruit,” I babbled. “And even if there were something wrong, it wouldn’t have anything to do with your manuscript, what? And even if it did, surely you’d know that I had the matter in hand and was working to fix it right at this very moment. And even if you didn’t, you’d know that Jeeves would have the matter in hand by proximity... proxy! I mean. Proxy. Proximity. Bally tricky words, those. Easy to mix up like ‘epithet’ and ‘epitaph’. Imagine if you had to put an epithet on an epitaph. Hah! That’d be a real whatsit to keep track of, eh?”

Her brows had drawn together, and she blinked at me several times. “Bertie, I’m not sure I entirely followed that, but I’m going to go back to my room now and let you and Mr. Jeeves work out whatever it is that’s going on. I expect you to have the manuscript for me tomorrow morning, though, all right?”

“Quite all right, Agatha. Toodle pip!”

She considered me for another second or two before raising her hands, shaking her head, and turning to walk back to the manor. I distinctly heard the word ‘boys’ drifting in her wake.

I looked around and spotted Cynthia by the fountain in conference with Lord Wickhammersley, Spode, and Madeline. Though not the ideal crowd on which to impose my presence, I needed to talk to her, so once more I soldiered forth, dodging guests, servants, and potted whatsits, eyes blinkered to all other distractions like those horses that pull carriages around parks for the nostalgic pair of lovebirds.

The blinkers came off momentarily as an image of myself and Jeeves tucked into such a carriage, his arm wrapped around my shoulder as I cuddled up to him and–

“Bertie, my one, my only, my forever!” Cynthia cooed, beckoning me toward her. “I’ve been looking for you all morning. Come and talk with us. Madeline was just reciting her latest piece of poetry!” As the ‘poet’ in question turned to beam at her husband and the gentlemen both looked at her to smile patiently, Cynthia pulled a face and mimed stabbing herself in the chest.

“Ahah!” I covered my mouth to suppress a snicker. “Well, my sweetest lamb of love,” I returned, “I’m afraid I need to borrow you for two ticks and a tock. If you wouldn’t mind, Madeline? Love and all that, you know?”

“Oh, of course, Bertie!” She tittered, gazing up at Spode. “Roderick and I both know of the secrets shared between lovers.” He returned her look with a smile soppy enough to make one gag, and I grabbed Cynthia and whisked her away before the whole of the garden party became aware of the nature of my breakfast.

“Good Lord! Thank you for that, Bertie,” she said as soon as we were out of earshot, strolling toward the statue where the whole scheme had begun. “If I’d had to listen to one more line about ‘kittens and their velveteen mittens’, I might just have done Mrs. Christie a dishonor by murdering without a mystery behind it.”

“Funny you should mention Agatha...” I related the woeful tale of the lake in full, including Stiffy’s threats.

“That little...!” I lapse into ellipse as a gentleman doesn’t like to repeat cruder words when they spring from the lips of prominent young ladies. “I’m never playing tennis with her again!” Cynthia concluded after displaying the vocabulary the halls and dormitories a public school education can afford to girls of her standing. I was blushing up to the roots of my hair, having learned more than one new turn of phrase to shock the socks off a sailor.

“We’ll just have to run away,” she decided, turning to me from her enraged pacing. “Geo and I will elope to France and... and...” I could tell anger was swiftly waning toward despair and offered her my arms as I’d offered them to Agatha. At least in this case, though, I could provide more than a shoulder to cry on. “I’m so sorry, Bertie,” she sobbed. “I never meant for you or anyone else to get mixed up in this. Mummy just can’t see what an amazing man Geo is, even though Daddy approves of the match and would welcome him with open arms. Ever since Mummy made Daddy give up gambling, he’s spent so much time with Geo. He says it’s like having a son to play at gentleman sports with. Why can’t she just let me be happy? I hate her!”

“Don’t worry, old thing,” I soothed. “Even as we speak, Jeeves is wheezing his best wheeze yet to work this all out.”

“What?”

“We’re going to need your help in it, though. And I’m afraid it will be just a bit dangerous. But if it works, Drusilla Wickhammersley will be singing George Chilcott’s praises to the heavens.”

“Do you really mean that, Bertie?”

“But of course.” I explained the plan and her role.

“Oh, Bertie, will it work?” She asked as I handed over my handkerchief for her to dry her eyes on.

“So long as I have the whistle, the little fiend won’t be able to resist,” I assured.

We walked back to the manor after that so that she could redo her makeup before returning to the guests at the party. I stayed outside, lighting a gasper and puffing it for the comfort. Seeing Cynthia’s distress had reawakened my own anger toward Stiffy, but I still couldn’t help the small seed of doubt taking root in the Wooster tum.

Stiffy had always been an opportunistic beazel, willing to do anything and everything in her power to get at what she wanted. Why should this time be any worse? Well, because she’d imperiled someone else to get Bertram to comply, lacking the usual threat of engagement.

“Ah, Mr. Wooster.” Woolwine shuffled over to me from the doorway. “Your man Jeeves was looking for you. Where may I say you’ll be in the next five minutes, sir?”

“The garden I shouldn’t wonder,” I replied. “If not there, then back here, waiting on Cynthia. Women and makeup, Woolwine. I’ll never understand it, what?”

“Nor I, sir.” He bowed and creaked away.

As it happened, Jeeves found me still standing outside the back of the manor, working at my second gasper.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he called as he oiled over the gravel, hardly making a peep. I wondered if his feet were actually touching the rocks, or if hovering a centimeter or two off the ground was part and parcel to the valeting toolkit. He certainly made me feel like I could walk on air sometimes, but that was immaterial.

“What ho, Jeeves! All going according to plan?” I asked as he stopped beside me and proceeded to straighten my tie, smooth my lapels, and do everything I’d been hoping to avoid by dressing myself. “Do quit fussing, Jeeves,” I chided in a rather high register as I batted his hands away. “You’re worse than a mother hen.”

“My apologies, sir.” There, again, was that terribly unapologetic tone. “I have met with Mr. Chilcott and outlined the plan with him. Although he was initially concerned about Lady Wickhammersley’s safety, I assured him that you would be in the tree to protect her in the event that the animal managed to climb it.”

“You mean, I’d be the fresh meat while she made good her escape?”

“You are a very brave man, sir,” he acknowledged with a slight quirk of his lips.

“Or a very foolish one.”

“I has been said that the bravest men are the most foolish, sir, for they know not the danger into which they fling their souls.”

“Shakespeare?”

“My mother, sir, before I was enlisted during the final days of the Great War.”

“I’m sorry, Jeeves.”

“There is nothing to apologize for, sir,” he assured me. “I saw very little active combat. Were you able to secure the confidences of Mr. Little and Lady Cynthia?” he continued as if the topic had been nothing more serious than the weather.

“Cynthia, yes.” I nodded toward the doorway. “She’s gone to powder her nose or some such after having a good cry about the situation. I can tell you, Jeeves, I was near enough to the sniffles before you came up with your corker. In any case, I found someone better than Bingo.”

“Sir, I wish you had come to me first before altering the plan.”

“Now wait just a minute and listen to this, Jeeves, and you’ll be proud of the young master’s cunning.” I explained about Thumper, Sticky, and their foxhounds.

“This is certainly good new, sir.” I beamed at him. “If I had known you were well acquainted with the Pumphrey-Devereuxs, I would have suggested them from the outset.”

“Right, then, the last thing?”

Jeeves produced a thin metal tube about the length of my index finger with a ring at one end and place to blow at the other. There was a single slot cut out of the top.

“A gift from one of the footmen who is presently at odds with one of the gardeners, sir.”

“What would a footman and gardener have to be at odds about?” I puzzled over this strange development.

“A parlormaid, sir.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed, sir.” He handed me the whistle to test out. “You will need to be discreet, sir, but with any luck, Lady Cynthia’s hysterics should draw most of the attention. Try not to directly face the crowd when you blow into it.”

“Jeeves, I think I know how to be subtle.”

My man raised an eyebrow a fraction of an inch and simply said, “Pardon me for mentioning it, sir, but the house is on fire.”

I blushed and looked away, the humiliation of that particular fiasco igniting as if it had only been last night. It had all turned out for the best, of course, the musical making a hit and all that, but I did tend to go a bit glassy-eyed in the face of eager onlookers.

“Right. Well. I’ll do my best, Jeeves. You’d better hold onto this little thingummy until tomorrow, though.”

“Very good, sir.” As he took it, our fingers brushed, but Cynthia’s arrival forestalled anything strange happening.

“Jeeves, I cannot thank you enough for this,” she greeted, throwing her arms around him and pecking him on the cheek. Jeeves stiffened, and I found myself likewise-rigid, that terrible green fellow rearing up and demanding that I rip Cynthia away from my man and give her a firm talking to about this kissing business she seemed to be so keen on. Then, her arms were around me and I was receiving a similar treatment. “You too, Bertie. You’re both doing so much for me and Geo.”

Properly chastised by this sororal display of affection, the green-eyed whatsit slinked back to the pit from which he had sprung. “It’s the only thing we could do, Cynthia. This Wooster would never send a girl off to marry some spotty old blighter in India against her will.”

“But you wouldn’t marry me, either?” She quirked an eyebrow, arms still wrapped around my neck.

“Well, I... of course I... and then the... Your bird-man would kill me!” I sputtered.

She giggled and prodded my nose, rather like one might treat a favored hound. “Quite right, Mr. Wooster. Shall we return to the party?”

“Indeed.”

\--- --- ---

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, and before you could say ‘Robert’s your mother’s brother’, I was trotting upstairs with Jeeves to prepare for dinner. He laid out my eveningwear as I proceeded to undress myself. He finished his task as I was struggling with the buttons on my shirt.

“Should I inform Lady Wickhammersley that we will be late for dinner, sir?”

“What’s that, Jeeves?” I growled, contemplating simply ripping the rest off in manly display of Bertram’s forearm strength. Then I considered how pathetic I would look if I _didn’t_ managed to rip them all off and continued the task in a more gentlemanly way.

“If you wish to undress and dress yourself without my assistance, sir, the task will take twice as long.”

“Yes, well... I should be practicing, then. Learning to do it better, what? No time like the present.”

“Are you intending to dismiss me from your service, sir?” My head shot up at that, and I gawked at him.

“What?” I demanded. “Of course not, Jeeves! Why would you ever think that?”

“If you will not allow me to perform my duties, sir, I cannot think why you would wish to continue with a valet in your employ.”

“I... well, I...” He had me there. I sighed and let my hands drop away. “Very well, Jeeves. Just... erm... I’m feeling a bit, ah, sensitive, so if you could try to avoid touching me?”

“I will do my utmost best, sir.”

Even at his ‘utmost best’, there seemed to be more than a few unnecessary strokes and pats, but we both made it through. He helped me into my jacket at last and brushed off a few stray pieces of lint.

In a moment of madness, I spun before him, a nervous chuckle or two escaping. “Am I all right, then, Jeeves? Up to the required standard?”

“You are perfect, sir,” he replied, stepping close to smooth out my lapels.

I gulped, staring into his eyes, when the dinner gong sounded. “B-better hie ourselves downstairs, then!” I fairly ran for the door and out across the landing until I spotted Bingo.

“What ho, Bertie!” he called, approaching with Rosie. “Eager to get to dinner? It looked like you were sprinting.”

“Oh, er... yes.” I glanced behind and saw Jeeves proceeding toward us at a stately shimmer, inscrutable as ever.

“Good evening Mr. Little, Mrs. Little.” He acknowledged each with a slight inclination of his head.

“Well, Bertie’s starving, and so am I,” Bingo said after the silence had stretched to an almost-awkward length. “Shall we?” Rosie took his proffered arm, and they proceeded downstairs. I watched them go, then looked at Jeeves.

“Would you like to take my arm, sir?” he queried softly. There was that bally mind-reading wheeze again!

“Of course not, Jeeves!” I hissed, but I could feel an incriminating blush stealing across my cheeks. “I’m supposed to be engaged to Cynthia for God’s sake. What a dreadful sense of humor you have!”

“As you say, sir.”

We also proceeded downstairs. Separately. With no arm-linkage or even thoughts of arm-linkage at all. Not a bally _one_.

Dinner was not nearly so miserable as it had been last night. I was seated with Cynthia on my right, Lord Wickhammersley on my left, and Bingo, Rosie, and Thumper across. I spotted Stiffy with Angela and Madeline down at the other end of the table and shot her a scowl that could have wilted a rosebush in full bloom. Stiffy, being made of harder stuff than rosebushes, simply waved and grinned.

“Is there something wrong with your food, Bertie?” Rosie asked.

“What? No. It’s absolutely topping.” I directed this at Lord Wickhammersley.

“You just had the most disgusted expression on your face,” she pressed.

“Oh, just recalling a nasty little bug I saw this morning by the lake.” Not an entirely untrue statement.

This prompted Thumper to go into a detailed account of his alternate life as an ento-whatsit – the chaps like Gussie, only they’re obsessed with insects instead of newts. It seemed that Thumper had quite the collection at home. The discussion turned more generally to hobbies and this carried us through the main course and onto dessert.

Being that I knew Jeeves and the task of undressing awaited me once I left the music room that night, I stayed quite late. It was only my man’s insistent: ‘We would not wish to be unfit for tomorrow’s events, sir.’ that forced me from the piano bench and upstairs.

“Jeeves, you needn’t put yourself to any trouble tonight,” I said as he glided into the room ahead of me and pulled my pajamas from the dresser. “It’s late, and as you say, we have a lot to look forward to tomorrow. Just lay the whatsits out, and I’ll do the rest.”

“It’s no trouble, sir,” he replied. “And I should like to see that your eveningwear is properly hung in the wardrobe.”

I proceeded across the room and sat down in the armchair, intent on pushing the point. “Really, Jeeves. You must be tired.”

I heard him sigh as he finished setting out my peach pajamas. “Sir, are you aware of the poet Oscar Wilde?”

It seemed a jolly odd question to ask out of the blue. I looked up and noticed he’d oiled over to the door at some point. There was a click and I knew he’d locked it. I gulped, but tried to proceed as normal. “Famous chappie who got tossed in jail for ‘gross indecency’ or some such, right? Happened before my time, but even still, you know I don’t really care for the nastier stuff they print in the newpaper. I tend to skip to wedding announcements and such. Surprised they’d lock a cove up for being indecent, though. Not that I approve of such activities, but walk down certain streets in Mayfair any given Saturday evening, and you’re likely to see more than a few acts of indecency – some of them _quite_ gross, I might add. I once had the misfortune to catch an eyeful of a fellow relieving himself in an alleyway.” I wrinkled my nose at the memory of the stench. “He was into his cups, though, by the smell of him. Still, that’s no excuse, what?”

“Indeed not, sir,” Jeeves agreed. “However, ‘gross indecency’ is merely a euphemism for another act which is considered to be morally reprehensible.”

“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that, then?”

“The love which dare not speak its name, sir.” At my confused frown, he clarified, “Passionate love between two men... homosexuality.”

Well, you could knock me over with an f. to hear my man state it so plainly. “In-indeed, Jeeves? Well, that’s a rum sitch for the chap. Still, we have certain laws for a reason. Must be something wrong about it if it can get you thrown in the chokey for two years hard labor.”

“Sir, do you honestly believe love between consenting, mature individuals can be wrong?” he queried, walking over, leaning down, and placing his hands on either arm of my chair so that our faces were level... and very close.

“I’m not sure, Jeeves,” I said, wanting desperately to move forward and bridge the small distance between us, “but those priestly sorts like Stinker certainly have something to say about it, let alone the law.”

“Society often fears what it cannot understand, sir, and religious ethics and legal practices of the day reflect those fears. In ancient Greece, love between men was exalted and accepted as the love between a man and a woman.”

“ _That’s_ what the Greeks had to do with it!” I cried suddenly, then quieted as he tilted his head in confusion. “Er... I’d just been... we’d talked about the Greeks...” I mumbled my way into silence, staring down at the hands clasped in my lap.

“Sir.” His voice was gentle and imploring, and I found myself unable to resist looking up into his dark blue gaze.

“Jeeves, I’ve been having certain...”

“Yes, sir?”

And that did it. I shifted forward, my hands coming up to grasp the lapels of Jeeves’ jacket, and my mouth pressing against his. This accomplished, I whimpered... in a very manful way, mind you.

It took one of Jeeves’ hands running up my neck to cup the side of my face, and the other running quite a bit lower as his tongue began to flick questioningly across my lips to bring me to my senses. My eyes flew open, and I realized what I was doing. I, the _master_ , was taking advantage of Jeeves, the _servant_. And marvel that he was, he was taking it in stride, just letting me kiss him and think all sorts of thoughts about him. He was even going along with it. He'd been going along with it for some time now, not wishing to discourage me, probably for fear of losing his position.

I shoved him as far back as my arms would allow. “Get out!”

“Sir, have I done something to hurt–” He tried to say, eyes wide with alarm.

“Out! Out! Get out, Jeeves!” I scrabbled until I was able to crawl out of the chair over the arm, landing in a heap upon the floor.

Jeeves was at my side in an instant. “Sir, I apologize. I did not anticipate this particular reaction.”

“ _You_ apologize? Hah! Hahahah!” I crawled away from him and curled myself up in the corner. “God, but you’re amazing, Jeeves. You’d even let the young master... Please, Jeeves! Just leave. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize I was... I’m a horrible, horrible gentleman! I run about kissing my servant like some lecherous employer in a penny romance. Please don’t hate me!”

I covered my face with my hands and gave it the old college try to hold back my tears of shame and self-loathing. Unfortunately, college had been a bit too long ago for it to really work.

“Sir,” Jeeves’ voice came low and soothing and close, “I cannot hate you, because I love you.”

And those magnificent, capable, strong arms finally did what I’d been longing for them to do for months now: They wrapped around me and drew me in toward my man’s broad chest. “I love you, sir,” he repeated, stroking my back. “I did not mean for it to happen this way, but I love you.”

I managed to gulp down the tears long enough to return a shaky, “Me, too. I love you, too, Jeeves.”


	14. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the chapter where the Explicit rating begins to take effect, friends.
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-lovely Mice (erynn999)

We sat on the floor for several more minutes while I emptied what felt like a bally ocean’s worth of tears onto Jeeves’ shoulder. Finally, the sobs subsided to whimpers, which became sniffles, and finally culminated in me pulling away, sheepishly wiping my nose and dabbing my eyes with my handkerchief. “S-sorry about that, Jeeves,” I mumbled, feeling not a little like a desi-whatsit fish – the thing that means he’s all dried out and lost the glimmer in his scales. “I didn’t mean to...” I motioned to the damp patch on his jacket.

“Please do not concern yourself over the matter, sir,” he replied magnanimously. “It is my own fault for pressing you before you were ready.”

“Before I was... I’m the one who kissed _you_ , Jeeves!” I protested. “If there was any pressing to be done... I’ve been having to restrain myself from the most ludicrous notions flitting through the Wooster lemon lately, and I just snapped. You’re taking it jolly well, what?”

“Sir, while it is true that you initiated our first labial contact, I believe you are under the misapprehension that the culmination of tonight’s proceedings are of your own making.”

I blinked at him, rubbing a few more times at the Wooster orbs. “Well, yes, Jeeves. Being under the impression that Bertram is his own free-thinking person, it stands to reason that having all sorts of strange thoughts regarding his valet is the means by which we arrived at the present situation.”

My man shook his head, sighing, but a tiny quirk of his lips in the upward direction assured me that I was not trying his patience. “I am afraid that I am responsible for instigating a set of circumstances some months ago which came to ultimate fruition this evening.”

“What circs?”

And he explained to me about his suspicions regarding my nature, his frustration at the lack of evidence, and his eventual wheeze to test my reaction to him laying on the Jeevesian hands in an altogether more intimate way.

“You mean you’ve been courting the young master all this time?” I demanded. “Not to be overly critical, my man, but that hardly seems in keeping with the old feudal spirit, what?”

“ _Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point; on le sait en mille choses_ ,” he replied. Having attended public school and being a _preux chevalier_ , I was well-versed in _la langue française_ , but I have to say that bit went over my head. He noticed my confusion and translated, “‘The heart has its reasons, which reason does not know. We feel it in a thousand things.’ A quote from Blaise Pascal’s _Pensées_ , sir. While I recognized that certain actions I was taking might be breaching the rules of decorum, I had great difficulty restraining myself. Even great minds fall prey to the faulty logic the heart might provide. ”

“Well you could have at least let the young master in on the wheeze,” I protested, crossing my arms and frowning. “It would have made things more than a touch easier if you’d just told me I was... grossly indecent.” I could not meet his eyes as I said this, the shame of such a label hanging heavy upon my conscience.

“Sir, that is a _vile_ phrase I should never like to hear you sully your lips with again, especially as it regards your own conduct.” There was such fierceness in the directive that I could hardly do more than nod. “The term most gentlemen of our particular preferences use is ‘invert’. As to my failure to inform you of your own nature... I could not risk it, sir. I had only a hypothesis based on inconclusive evidence from which to work until recently. When you did confirm my suspicions yesterday, I saw that you were only just beginning to realize the truth of the matter for yourself. If I had pushed farther, I feared you would become confused and agitated as you did tonight, perhaps even dismissing me from your service before I could explain my own feelings. While I could easily procure other employment, even without your references, I could not bear the thought of having to leave you after learning that you returned my regard. Nor, I’m afraid, could I restrain myself for much longer. I sincerely regret any pain that you have experienced as a result of my actions tonight, sir. ”

That all sounded quite reasonable. “That all sounds quite reasonable, Jeeves. And there’s nothing to apologize for... on your side, anyway. I really _am_ sorry for turning into a leaky version of the ocular plumbing, old thing,” I apologized again, offering a half-hearted smile. “I didn’t quite expect things to happen this way.”

“I must admit, sir,” he said, raising one brow a molecule higher as he examine the newly-salted portion of his jacket, “I _had_ been envisioning this scene more as an exchange of fluids than a one-way transaction.”

I blushed to rival a cherry tomato at this pronouncement and the absolutely – there could be no other word – _salacious_ smirk that accompanied it.

“Shall we relocate to the bed, sir?”

“J-Jeeves?”

“Unless you wish to continue our conversation and any accompanying activities on the floor, sir?” His brows tilted just so, and my heart began beating out a quick foxtrot in my chest. “I could not recommend it should we wish to prevent your eveningwear from coming to further harm.” He stood, pulling his jacket down and appearing mysteriously unruffled after this minor adjustment. In fact, the only reminder that Jeeves had been on the floor at all was the dark patch upon his right shoulder, but that was beginning to fade.

He held out his hand, and I grasped it so that he could pull me up onto slightly-wobbly pins. Thankfully, the bed was only three steps away, so we were able to sit more comfortably after a moment.

“If I may take the liberty, sir, I should like to kiss you properly now.”

I managed to jerk the Wooster onion up and down in something approximating a nod. What if I was a bad kisser? I’d pressed lips with the odd filly and offered a cousinly peck here and there, but my most recent attempt to kiss my man had ended rather catastrophically. I’d seen young lovers locking lips in musicals and on side streets before, but they never bothered to tell you if there was a particular flick of the wrist or whatsit to pulling it off well. Not to mention those had always involved one bird and one beazel instead of two of the same.

I started as I felt Jeeves’ hand tracing my jaw line. “Calm down, sir. There is no need to be nervous.”

“I-I say, Jeeves,” I stuttered, “I’ve been wondering now for a while, but are you some sort of psych–Mmph.” Whatever question I’d been about to ask melted in my brain and dribbled out of my ears into a puddle of perfectly-contented Bertram as my man captured my lips and proceeded to teach me just what goes on behind the l.l.’s of young lovers of the inverted variety.

He was gentle, his tongue once more teasing at my lips until I caught on and parted them a bit. Next began a slow, pleasurable, and highly-talented conquest of the Wooster oral faculties. We had to come up for breath once or twice, but by the end of the Jeevesian exploration, I felt as if he had left no molar unexplored, and no tonsil unturned. I’d tried to recipro-whatsit, tangling my tongue with his when I could be bothered to think but, by and large, it was my insides liquefying into a warm helping of something-or-other that really drew my negligible gray matter.

By the time I could spare a thought for my surroundings, I found that I was on my back, tie loosened and Jeeves’ capable fingers making short work of the buttons on my top half. I drew him down for another, briefer, kiss before he pulled back and requested I sit up.

I complied wholeheartedly, springing up and catching him by surprise as I wrapped my arms around his neck and took the opportunity to dishevel his entirely-too-proper appearance by running my fingers up the back of his neck and through his hair. “Oh, sir...”

Never let it be said that we Woosters are slow on the uptake once we’ve been clued in. I pulled him forward, and he allowed me to plumb his own uncharted depths. I snaked my tongue into his mouth and, while the toothsome adventure wasn’t anywhere near as good as he’d done whilst mapping my own oral cavity, the pleased sigh and moderately debauched air about his person as I drew back let me know that it hadn’t been altogether horrible, either. We had flipped positions by that point, me nearly straddling his hips and him leaning back with his elbows propping him up on the bedspread. I made to remove his tie, but he caught my wrist, pressing a small kiss to it, and shaking his head as he let go.

“While I wish to continue these most stimulating activities, sir,” he assured me, “I will be missed if I do not return to my shared room in the servant’s dormitories soon. There is also tomorrow to consider, as well as the fact that country manors are notorious for their ability to carry peculiar noises in the night.”

“What peculiar noises?” I asked, brows drawing down in confusion. “Like creaks and–Aaah!” I gripped his shoulders as one of his hands cupped a portion of the Wooster anatomy that had become _quite_ stimulated by the proceedings.

“And groans, sir,” he finished.

“But... you’re not going to leave me in this...” I trailed off, panting slightly and biting my lip as I looked anywhere but at him. He massaged the interested portion of the Wooster a. again, and it took all of my willpower not to throw caution to the winds and start rubbing up against him like an overfriendly housecat.

“Indeed not, sir. If you would allow me to rise?”

I eased off of him, licking my lips and feeling not a little desperate. He slid off the bed and knelt on the floor, carefully removing my shoes, garters, and socks as he had last night. Next, he had me stand and turn around after unhooking my braces so that he could peel off my shirt, waistcoat and jacket all in one go. He set these aside for a moment and spun me back to face him, lavishing kisses upon my bared neck as he attacked my flies, before having me step out of my trousers. This accomplished and with Bertram standing before him in only his undervest and pants, Jeeves proceeded to collect my clothes and biff himself off to the wardrobe.

“Jeeves!” I cried, suddenly very aware that I was nearly in the altogether, and he was still fully dressed. “Is this _really_ the time to be hanging the young master’s clothes up?”

“Standards must be maintained, sir,” came his prim reply. “If you would see to removing what remains of your garments and sitting on the bed, though, I believe you may find the next activity I have in mind a most gratifying experience.”

“You want me to just sit naked on the bed, Jeeves?” I asked, a warmth once more suffusing the damask cheek.

He turned from his task momentarily to shoot me another of those wicked smirks. “Indeed, sir.”

I gulped, the blood in my face shooting downward toward the Wooster loins. I hurried to comply with the request, shucking my undergarments in record time and crawling across the bed so that I was on the same side as the wardrobe. He paused in rolling my tie up to watch as I settled myself on the edge, and I saw his nostrils flare and his chest begin to rise and fall more rapidly. Well, so long as I wasn’t the only one being affected. Fair’s fair and all that rot, what?

I watched him hang and fold the rest of my togs in a snap before shimmering back toward the bed. Instead of sitting, though, he knelt before me as if he were about to re-sock, garter, and shoe the Wooster _corpus_.

“Jeeves, what are you doing?”

In reply, he ran his hands from just below my knees – careful to avoid the war wound I’d suffered at Bartholomew’s paws – over my thighs, up my hips, and back down again, kneading the muscles here and there along the way. I shuddered and just about did something very embarrassing there and then, a low sound I didn’t know I was capable of making escaping as he repeated the motion, this time moving his hands closer to the insides of my thighs and gently pulling my legs apart in the process.

“Sir, while I should love nothing more than to hear your voice ring out, you will need to be as quiet as possible. If you would just relax and lean back?” I nodded and did so, bracing myself with one hand and pressing the other across my mouth to muffle the rather insistent noises I couldn’t help myself making.

I’ve always been a bit of a noisy chap. Whether it’s singing, blathering on about whosits and whatsits, or taking care of certain matters a gentleman doesn’t like to discuss in company, Bertram’s always had some trouble buttoning his lips. A hand would have to suffice. And, talking of hands, Jeeves’ were doing bally marvelous things to areas below the Wooster belt, though I was beginning to wish they’d hurry up about taking care of the most prominent piece of the Wooster anatomy located below said b.

As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, Jeeves settled his hands on either one of my thighs, and I tilted my map down from where I’d been casting my silent praise toward the ceiling to look at him. He was staring at my... well, at the portion of my anatomy that might be politely referred to as the little Wooster, with the most singular expression I have ever seen grace my man’s map. I’m not sure if I can really do it justice in the description, but I’ll give it the old college try and hope that it works out better than the college try did with regard to sobbing half the fluid contents of my body out onto Jeeves’ shoulder.

Beneath half-lidded eyes, his pupils were blown wide, the inky blackness swallowing all but a thin ring of dark blue iris. Rouge painted the high cheekbones of his normally-pale face, and his lips were parted, allowing his tongue to dart out at irregular intervals to moisten them. I could feel his breath upon me as he exhaled his desire in short puffs of humid warmth. His ebony brows were drawn down in deep concentration, and his hair remained in delightful disarray from when I’d had my wicked way with it.

My fingers twitched to run through those brilliantined locks again, but I resisted, and a bally good thing, too, because the next thing I knew, I was having to slap my other hand across my maw and bite my lip to stifle a moan Jeeves pulled from me as he put his talented tongue to rather interesting uses.

In the meanwhile, he’d moved his hands to my hips to hold me in place as I’d started to buck a bit despite my most valiant attempts to hold still and let my man work his wonders. It had certainly never felt like this before – the... build up of a certain tension, that is.

Like any healthy chap, my hand knew its way about the little Wooster, but as the heat of Jeeves’ mouth engulfed, sucked, and licked, the little Wooster and I were firmly in agreement that it was a very, very poor substitute and would be relegated to those unbearably long two-week vacations my man took every summer. As he bobbed up and down, I could feel myself wavering at the tipping point, unable to hold back. I tried to communicate this to Jeeves, tempting fate and releasing one of my hands from my mouth briefly so that I could pull his head up.

There was a muffled sound of pleasure as I dug my fingers into his hair and tugged. This turned to disapproval as I became more insistent, and he finally freed the little Wooster from his mouth and glanced up.

He must have liked what he saw on my map, for he quirked his lips and said simply, “Come for me, sir,” before diving back to his work.

How can a gentleman refuse such a request? Jeeves took me wholly into his throat and swallowed, and I was gone. I arched my back, toes curling as brilliant lights exploded in my vision, and I screamed Jeeves’ name into my hands.

I drifted back from that plane that a cove flies to after such an experience by degrees. I was once more sprawled across the linens, and lying beside me, running his hand in lazy swirls across the Wooster tum, was Jeeves. “I trust you found the activity gratifying, sir?”

“Gratifying doesn’t cover the half of it, Jeeves.” I beamed at him in what I fear was a rather Madeline Bassett-ish way, oozing sop from every pore. If he noticed, he had the decency to refrain from commenting, returning my regard with that understated, self-satisfied smile of his. I could see the creases around his eyes, though, and knew that, for Jeeves, it was a positively ear-splitting grin of triumph.

It then occurred to me that, while the little Wooster had calmed considerably, the little Jeeves hadn’t had nearly enough attention in the proceedings. “Jeeves, I’m sorry!” I reached toward the place where I knew the little Jeeves must reside, but frowned when I could find no insistent bulge.

The gentle cough of a sheep upon the morning hillside drew my attention back to my man’s face. He had gone quite red. “Sir, there is no need to... I reached my completion shortly after you.”

“Oh... well, that’s good, then.”

“Yes, sir, I was, thankfully, able to hold back until I had pulled down my lower garments.”

I snorted, and he frowned. “Sorry, Jeeves, it’s just... only _you_ would worry about your clothes getting mussed in a situation like this.”

“Sir, stains from such fluids are quite difficult to remove from most fabrics. I could not advise simply ‘letting go’ while still fully cl–Oof.”

‘Oof’, you ask? When has Jeeves ever ended a sentence with ‘Oof’? Well, one can hardly expect even an articulate chappie like Jeeves to finish a sentence coherently when said a.c. has a pillow slapped across his face.

I pulled the pillow away to reveal a rather shocked valet. His ebony brow had risen a full quarter inch and the stuffed frog was threatening to make an appearance. “Sir, why did you hit me with a pillow?”

I shrugged and offered him Bertram’s most charming smile, this accompanied by Bertram’s most irresistible wink. “Sorry, Jeeves. New to this whole invert whatsit. Just seemed like the thing to do at the time.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“In _deed_ , Jeeves.”

He pursed his lips, then relented with a sigh, leaning over and pressing a chaste kiss to my lips. “I fear I must return to my own quarters now, sir.”

I frowned. “Wish you could stay, old thing.”

“My precise sentiments, sir,” he agreed. “However, we will have to wait until we return to London in order to fully consummate our new understanding... if that meets with your approval.” There was a hint of uncertainty in his voice, and I rushed to quash it.

“Oh, quite, Jeeves! That sounds absolutely topping. You’ll have to show me a bit more about the thingummy with your mouth and the... the whatsit.” I motioned downward and then realized that I was still quite naked compared to my man and blushed.

“Oral stimulation was not all that I had in mind, sir, but I should be happy to teach you.” The husky way he said it set my heart to racing again, and I licked my lips, suddenly quite content that we would be departing Twing Hall tomorrow. “In any event, sir,” he continued, voice leveling out at a more neutral timbre, “shall I assist you with your nightwear?”

I glanced at my pajamas as he motioned to them and nodded. “Yes. Please, Jeeves.”

He had me properly suited for bed in under a minute, the longest bit being me pulling on a fresh set of pants. That done, he smoothed out the wrinkles in his own appearance, tidied away my other undergarments, laid out my dressing gown for the morning, and tucked me into bed.

“Jeeves,” I called, just as he started to turn toward the doorway.

“Yes, sir?” He refocused his attention on me.

“It’s just... do you think me a horrible gentleman for wanting to get back at Stiffy?” I asked. The confusion over my situation with Jeeves sorted, this particular thought came buzzing to the forefront of the Wooster conscience. “She can be a spiteful young filly, but I know she’s really good at heart. Why else would Stinker want to join his lot with hers?”

“Sir, I think you are many things, but horrible has never been among those descriptors.” He brushed a stray wisp of hair from my forehead and tucked it behind my ear. “Ms. Byng has placed her own personal interests above the physical and emotional well-being of not only yourself, but two other people, one of whom is her close friend. Such narcissistic tendencies cannot be allowed to flourish in a young lady for her own good, if not society’s at large.”

“It just doesn’t seem very much in keeping with the nature of the _preux chevalier_ , you know? What would the Woosters who fought at Agincourt think of their descendent visiting retribution upon some headstrong beazel who’s always had a bit more spirit than might be considered entirely healthy?” I stared down at the covers, fiddling with them for lack of something better to do.

He placed his hand below my chin and tilted my head up until I was staring into his serene blue eyes. “I suspect, sir, that they would appreciate what you are doing for Lady Cynthia and Mr. Chilcott. The only harm likely to come about with regard to our plan is to Ms. Byng’s ego. She is a strong young lady and will recover from the blow in little time. Please do not worry yourself unduly.” He leaned down and kissed me once more. “We must save our strength and concern for tomorrow’s events. Good night, sir. I love you.”

Placated for the moment, I snuggled down beneath the covers, rather wishing for a Jeeves to snuggle up to, but appearances must be maintained, just as standards. “Love you, too, Jeeves.”

He glided to the door, unlocked it, flicked off the light and was gone.


	15. Chapter 13

If you’ve never been woken by a kiss, I can highly recommend it. Floating somewhere between sleep and not-quite-awake, a kiss is one of the more pleasant ways a chap can be drawn from Morpheus’ grasp toward that unfriendly beast known as morning.

“What sort of day is it, Jeeves?” I asked, stretching and rolling over to greet my man with a grin as he pulled away. Then, I caught sight of the clock. “Good Lord! Has it really just gone six, or has the young master gone barmy?”

“It promises to be a pleasant day, sir,” he replied, handing me my tea after I’d propped myself up. “A light breeze from the north should alleviate the humidity that will accompany the afternoon’s warm temperatures. As for the time, I can assure you that the clock is accurate. If you will recall yesterday, you informed me that you would like to fortify your spirits before proceeding downstairs.”

I was already awake and sipping my tea, so any further arguments about the arrangement seemed mute... if that’s the word I want. It’s something those solicitor chaps talk about at university. Moot! There’s the fiend. Further arguments from this Wooster were of the moot variety. “Very well, Jeeves. Would you run my bath?”

“Certainly, sir.” He oiled away, and I watched him go with a careful eye upon the Jeevesian backside. Memories of last night rose to the surface of my mind like the cream rises from the milk, and I savored them as the favored cat within the barnyard. How many hours until we returned to London, and I could see my man in the altogether? It did seem highly unsporting that he’d had five years to practice at undressing me, and the most I’d ever had was a glimpse of him in his shirtsleeves. It couldn’t be helped, though, and even I had to admit that a fully-clothed Jeeves was a thoroughly enjoyable sight. Still, I couldn’t help my thoughts wandering to what I’d be doing with my man in a few short hours.

‘My man.’ That phrase had never meant much other than ‘my valet’, or ‘my manservant’, but now... Now I needed to focus. I set my tea down and grimaced. I’d been about to start waxing on in the most pathetically poetic light about Jeeves. Lady Spodecup would have applauded. Well, if she hadn’t been horrified by the nature of the coves involved in the whatsit.

“Jeeves,” I said as he shimmered in, and I pulled back the covers to rise, “if I start blathering on about how ‘the stars are God’s daisy chain’ or how ‘the moon coaxes the rosebuds into waking’, do the young master a favor and tell him to go and boil his head.”

“Sir?”

“I shouldn’t like to be thought of as one of those fellows who turns into a soppy thingummy just because he’s finally stopped being an absolute chump and wised up to his properly romantic inclinations. We Woosters are made of sterner stuff, rarely given to sop, and most certainly never given to poetry, what?”

His brow rose a few centimeters in bemusement. “As you say, sir. The bath is ready... May I request permission to attend you?”

I blushed as the bemusement disappeared to be replaced by a sort of hungry look that I knew had nothing to do with a lack of breakfast.

“N-no need to ask things like that anymore, old fruit,” I returned as he unbuttoned my pajama top and laid it aside. I couldn’t look him in the eye as I continued, “Bertram is yours to attend as you will, what?”

“Very good, sir.” While he folded my top, I shucked the bottoms and my pants, feeling not a little embarrassed as he watched me with open interest. After setting everything on the bed and removing my bandage – the laci-whatsits I’d endured having scabbed over in the night – I hurried off to the bathroom, unable to stand his careful scrutiny without doing a fair impression of one of the lorries those fiery chaps race about in.

The water was the perfect temperature as I lowered myself in, Jeeves entering seconds later and flitting about, preparing my shaving supplies and toothbrush, straightening towels, wiping the sink off, and generally doing everything except paying the young master any attention. When he’d said he’d wanted to attend me in the bath in That Voice, I’d assumed he’d had other activities in mind... as had the little Wooster.

I squeezed my ducky a few times in consolation, casting a furtive glance at my man every few seconds.

“Was there something you required, sir?” he asked after one of my f.g.’s had lingered a bit too long.

“What? N-no!” I started, quickly grabbing my loofah from the rack across the tub and rubbing it up and down my arm. It took a moment and an amused quirk of my man’s lips for me to notice that it was still dry. I dunked it in the water and continued. “No, Jeeves, nothing at all. I was just... ah... enjoying the scenery, you know?” I winced, realizing I’d used the same unsavory phrase Thumper had to describe Agatha yesterday. “I mean to say you. Watching you do... things. J-jolly interesting.”

“As you say, sir,” he acknowledged in a tone that made me wish I had a pillow on hand to throw at him. Really! When a chap’s new to this inverted business, his man shouldn’t be laughing at him at every turn. Not that Jeeves was laughing, mind you, but he was coming as near to that smug jocularity as he ever did. “Shall I lay out our blue suit for this morning’s repast, sir?”

I gaped at him. “I thought you said you wanted to attend me in the bath, Jeeves!”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded. “I have completed all the necessary tasks... unless there is something else?”

So, that was his game. The smirk he wore, in addition to his posish, which afforded an excellent view of the full Wooster _corpus_ , informed me that he knew _exactly_ what the ‘something else’ I might be wanting was. I’d have to ask for it though, the cheeky devil.

I tried to relax, pushing my rubber d. about with an air of noncha-something-or-other – the one that means a cove’s cool as an iced cucumber. “Oh, well, there might be something else, Jeeves.”

“What would that be, sir?” Jeeves pulled off the chilled vegetable number better than I ever could.

“Ah... well, it’s j-just...” I stuttered a bit now that we’d actually come to the heart of the matter, staring down at my ducky for reassurance. He squeaked encouragingly. “This, erm... when you do... and then the thing... well, a healthy young gentleman, you know? And he’s... Jeeves?”

I looked up when I heard the most peculiar sound emanating from my valet. If it had been any other fellow, I’d have said he snorted, but Jeeves doesn’t snort. I saw his hand moving hastily from his mouth to his side, but there remained a glimmer of laughter in his eyes. “Could it be, sir, that you would like to find your morning release?”

“Yes! Yes... that’s a jolly good way to put it, Jeeves.” I nodded vigorously.

“Very good, sir.” And he just stood there watching me.

I stared back at him for a good five seconds before saying, “Er... Jeeves?”

“You may proceed as you normally would, sir,” he returned. “I should like to observe, if it is not too bold a request to make.”

I thought of last night and his mouth, and how the little Wooster and I had made our pact regarding my hand, and its future in relation to stimulating the little Wooster. But, watching my man as he watched me, I couldn’t help the blood in my face relocating to more southerly portions of the anatomy. “Ob-observe away, old thing.” I swallowed and licked my lips, setting my loofah aside and reaching down to take matters in hand, as it were.

Jeeves moved closer to the tub, then, picking up the metal rack and setting it aside before reclining on the porcelain edge near my mid-section. Given the extra space, I pulled my legs up a bit and spread them apart, feeling not a little ridiculous. That embarrassment diminished to a vague sort of discomfort, though, as the thrill of having my man just watch me took over. Not to mention, any chap has a bit of trouble concentrating on how absolutely daffy he must look when he... well, when he’s otherwise occupied in activities that emphasize athletics over academics.

I had become quite good at stifling the noises related to this particular activity back in public school, so I didn’t have to cover my mouth as I had last night. Instead, I snaked out my free hand and ran it up my man’s pinstripe-bedecked thigh. I felt him shudder as my touch moved closer to the bulge I could see forming in his groin region.

“Sir, you don’t need to–”

“Do you like to watch, Jeeves?” I cut him off, emboldened by the slightly breathy quality of his voice, one hand stroking the little Wooster, and the other teasing as far up his leg as I could comfortably reach.

“Yes, sir.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, I could see they had darkened considerably. “You’re so very beautiful, sir.”

And there I faltered. I mean to say, how is a gentleman to respond to such a peculiar compliment? Beautiful? Wooster, B.?

Roguishly handsome? Certainly.

Lithe of frame and thin of form? I couldn’t deny it.

Beautiful, though? Fillies were beautiful. A Monet when caught at the right angle with your eyes half-closed was beautiful. Even a particularly fine specimen of hound might be labeled as such. But Bertram was none of the above.

“Please do not stop, sir.” There was a note of pleading in Jeeves’ tone, and I realized I’d stilled completely.

“S-sorry about that, old thing,” I replied, returning to my stroking of both the little Wooster and nearby the little Jeeves. This was no time for thinking. Jeeves likely had a much more developed definition of the word ‘beautiful’ than I did, having crammed about sixteen different dictionaries into his massive brain. I’d just have to ask him about it later.

He shifted closer, then, and I was able to reach the tent in his trousers. If he had been given to such things, I think Jeeves might just have moaned as I brushed my fingers across his need, feeling the heat through the fabric.

“Not worried about ‘letting go’ in your trousers in this case, Jeeves?” I asked, waggling a brow subjectively – hold on, that’s not the word I want... seductively! There we are.

“Sir...” He leaned down and captured my mouth as I continued to pay the little Jeeves the attention it so rightly deserved. A moment later, though, I felt his hands pushing mine away. I harrumphed my disapproval against his mouth, but then, I felt the most extraordinary thing as he replaced my hand. It was the little Jeeves.

A gentleman doesn’t like to go into details, but I will say that the little Jeeves complemented the big Jeeves in almost every way: It was tall, solid in frame, hard as chiseled marble beneath, but soft on the outside. My man had his eyes closed again, and I could see his chest rising and falling just as quickly as mine was. I sped up my stroking, eager to see my man come undone, and nearing that point myself.

It was but the work of the moment, tugging and twisting with that special flick that always makes the little Wooster jump up like that Jack fellow with his candlesticks. Jeeves let out a sharp hiss and produced a handkerchief, covering himself as I gave one last jerk, and he whispered, “Oh, sir!”

His head went back, his lips parted, and his eyes closed, the most gorgeous expression of ecstasy I’ve ever seen on another human being passing across his map as I felt the little Jeeves pulse beneath my hand.

The sight was enough to push me over the edge, as well, and I’m afraid I was a bit less subtle as I cried, “Jeeves!” into the still air.

I next became aware of my ducky grinning up at me in that friendly way he’s perfected over the years that let’s Bertram know when he’s done a very good job at something. Jeeves was back to his enigmatic self, hands at his sides as he looked to the young master for his next set of instructions.

“Sir, we are running a bit later than I had anticipated after that most pleasurable diversion, if you would continue with your ablutions, I shall see to your suit and ensuring that the brothers Pumphrey-Devereaux are awake and prepared for their part of our plan."

I nodded, grinning at him. “Whatever you’d like, Jeeves. I’ll be done here in the nearish to soonish.”

“Very good, sir.” He inclined his head and biffed off.

It took another ten minutes for me to finish, and once clean, I hopped out of the tub, dried myself off, and took care of shaving and brushing my teeth, before proceeding to the bedroom sans dressing gown. Jeeves had yet to return from his hunt for the young Pumphrey-Devereuxs, so I began gearing myself up for the day in the togs he’d laid out. It was only after I was hooking my braces to the front of my trousers that Jeeves returned, the air of a harried headmaster hanging heavy about his person.

“Trouble, Jeeves?” I asked, brow drawing down in concern as he took over dressing me.

“No, sir. The Pumphrey-Devereauxs were awake and very... enthusiastic when I looked in on them.”

“Why so prickly then, old thing?”

“Prickly, sir?” There was the stuffed frog making his appearance.

“Oh, do just tell me what’s niggling you, Jeeves.” I rolled my eyes as he knotted my tie. “You’ve gone practically porcupine.”

He remained silent for nearly ten seconds, and I began to worry that the young master had well and truly offended his man. “Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux was not yet dressed when Mr. Richard Pumphrey-Devereaux admitted me to the room they were sharing, sir. I offered to assist Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux and shortly discovered that he is a gentleman given to considerable passion.”

“He’s an excitable fellow, certainly,” I agreed, grabbing my brushes from atop the dresser and taking a moment to tame my dried mop of hair.

“Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux was so impressed by the efficiency with which I dressed him, sir, that he offered to double my pay and vacation time should I accompany him back to his home in Herefordshire.”

“Well, of all the bally nerve!” I fairly snarled. “You’re _my_ man!”

“Indeed, sir. I attempted to impress this upon Mr. Warren Pumphrey-Devereux, but he would not be dissuaded. I was only able to extract myself from the room by intimating that I had a profound contempt for foxhounds and would find living on an estate with six hundred of the animals akin to an extended sojourn in the infernal regions.”

“Too right!” I nodded. “I’ll have to give Thumper a talking to once we’re all through. Hmph! Imagine trying to snatch a gentleman’s personal gentleman right out from under his nose. Sticky being enamored of Agatha was bad enough, but this is the absolute bally limit!”

“It is most gratifying to hear you voice your opposition in such a vociferous manner, sir.”

“Well, you’re mine, Jeeves,” I huffed. “I think a chap’s entitled to be a bit possessive when he’s head over spats for another chap.”

“Very true, sir. Shall we proceed to the dining room?” During the conversation, my shoes had found their way to my feet and my jacket to my shoulders, so I agreed readily.

“Oh, but Jeeves, what about the whistle?” I frowned. “You haven’t forgotten it, have you?”

“The item is in the right pocket of your trousers, sir. I took the liberty of placing it there before you donned the garment.” I felt the p. in q. and found the little metal piece tucked inside.

“All set, then, I think.” With this pronouncement, we started downstairs.

Even between the bath and our _divertissement_ , I was still the first guest in the dining room that morning. Jeeves faded away to assist the rest of the staff in setting out the breakfast spread while I procured the regular eggs and b. along with a glass of orange juice.

It was only as I was digging into my second helping of the good stuff that I was joined by Bingo and Rosie.

“What ho, Bertie!” Bingo acknowledged. He and Mrs. Bingo grabbed their own plates of food before joining me at my lonely end of the table. “You’re up awfully early, aren’t you?”

“Oh, well, you know how it is, what?”

“Do tell, Bertie,” Rosie insisted, not looking quite like the jolly authoress all her print ads made her out to be, “how is it? Richard and I were woken by you screaming this morning, so I should be most interested.

“What?” I blanched.

“That’s right,” Bingo joined in. “Sounded like you were yelling for Jeeves.”

“Oh, er...” I fumbled a piece of bacon and had to chase it to the floor, which afforded me an excuse for my face being so red when I popped up a moment later. “More _at_ Jeeves. We... we were having a disagreement about my choice of tie for the day, what? You know how I have to put my foot down when it comes to matters sartorial with Jeeves, Bingo, old fruit.”

He nodded sympathetically, then leaned in to relate in a whisper, “Rosie’s the same way. She won’t let me wear my horseshoe tie or lavender socks anymore.”

I coughed, and turned away before he could see me darkening to an even deeper shade of rouge. Comparing Jeeves to a wife was just a bit much for this Wooster’s nerves so early in the ack emma.

We were joined by a steady trickle of birds and beazels as the hour approached 8:00, though most notably Stiffy and Stinker. Stiffy filled her own plate with food and smirked at me before planting herself and Stinker beside Madeline and across from Lord and Lady Wickhammersley around the middle portion of the table. Cynthia sat down on my right and Angela took up residence beside Rosie at some point. I found my attention drifting as my pretend para-whatsit enthralled Rosie, Bingo, and Angela with a story from a women’s travel guide she’d read that talked about giant blue crabs going absolutely barmy off the coast of Indonesia and attacking the native weasel-type whatsits. I’d had my fill of breakfast by then and was shifting between watching the grandfather clock in the corner and Jeeves as he shimmered to and fro to re-fill glasses and be generally useful and servantish.

“Mr. Bertram Wooster, are you awake in there?” I started at the tap on my shoulder and looked over to see Agatha taking the unoccupied seat to my left.

“Oh!” I blinked at her. “Agatha, old fruit. Sorry, the mind was elsewhere, what?”

“I could see that, Bertie.” She laughed. “How are you this morning, then?”

I felt a grin stretching across my map before I could even begin to contain it. “I’m feeling wonderful, spiffing, absolutely topping!”

“Would you care for more orange juice, sir?” Talking of ‘wonderful, spiffing, and topping’.

“No, thank you, Jeeves. I think I’ll be fine.” I shifted my beam to him, and was delighted to see the briefest quirk of his mouth in return.

“Very good, sir. May I offer you anything else, Mrs. Christie?”

“I’m fine, as well, Mr. Jeeves.” She held up her hand to halt him. “Bertie was just telling me that he’s having a nice morning. I hope you are, too?”

“Indeed, madam. It is most kind of you to inquire.” He inclined his head before gliding off to tend to the other guests. I watched him go, another smile tugging at the young master’s lips. When I turned my gaze back to Agatha, she was studying me with such intensity, I blushed.

“All right, Bertie,” she began, leaning in and lowering her voice so that I had to shift toward her a bit to hear, “which of you boys cracked first?”

“Cracked?” I blinked at her. “Bartholomew bit me, Agatha. No cracking was involved.”

“I mean who jumped who, Bertie?” she insisted with an exasperated sigh.

Cracking? Jumping? I hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was on about. “Agatha, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about, but it sounds jolly dangerous. What on God’s green e. are you trying to say?”

She made another small sound of frustration in the back of her throat, then leaned even closer, murmuring directly into my ear. “I _mean_ , did Mr. Jeeves finally snap and snog you silly last night?”

“I say!” I I-sayed her, jerking back and letting my jaw drop to the level of the floor.

“Something the matter, dear heart?” Cynthia inquired.

“I-I... it’s...” I couldn’t even begin to put together an _in_ coherent sentence, let alone an excuse for the outburst that made sense.

Agatha swooped to the rescue. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s my fault. It _is_ a bit of a scandalous joke with two friars being involved, isn’t it, Bertie?”

Bingo demanded to hear the joke immediately, but Agatha covered her face and shook her head saying that it was much too embarrassing, especially after my reaction. Cynthia was eventually able to pull the conversation back to the curious habits of marine whatsits, and the Wooster gray matter rallied ‘round to provide me with enough wherewithal to demand in a whisper, “How did you...?”

“Bertie, I make my living writing about people concealing secrets, most of them terrible, but some of them wonderful,” she said. “I could tell that you and Mr. Jeeves were hiding something from one another along with the rest of the world, but today... it was only the world you were keeping out. I don’t really know a better way to explain it.”

“Y-you won’t tell anyone, will you?” If they still followed the laws from when that Wilde chappie was strolling about in his lavender gloves with a green carnation in his buttonhole, it would be into the chokey with Bertram and Jeeves. “Please, Agatha, you can’t,” I begged. “I know it’s all terribly unnatural and illegal and immoral, but I love Jeeves, and I can’t–”

“Calm down, Bertie.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me on one condition.”

“Anything! Anything at all, old fruit!” I assured, hardly daring to breathe.

“Tell me what happened.”

I frowned at her. “Why?”

“Because I’ve made a bet with myself, and I should like to know which side’s won.”

“Well... I...” I could feel the blush creeping back. “I kissed Jeeves first. He was just talking about the love that dare not speak its name, and he’d leaned in close, and I just...” I stared down at the empty glass of orange juice in my hands and coughed. “Matters progressed from there.”

I chanced a quick peek at Agatha’s map and was surprised to see a grin spreading from ear-to-ear.

“What are you two muttering about over there, then?” Cynthia demanded good-naturedly. “Not trying to steal my fiancé, I hope, Mrs. Christie.”

Agatha’s smile turned wry, and she winked. “Oh, I hardly think that would be possible, Cynthia. He seems to be quite devoted to the one he loves.”

“Isn’t he j–”

Before she could finish, a maid came tearing into the dining room screeching, “Lady Wickhammersley! Lady Wickhammersley! Oh, it’s ‘orrible! _‘Orrible_!”

“Calm down, you silly girl!” Lady Wickhammersley snapped, rising and glaring across the table. I noted Thumper and Sticky sneaking in surreptitiously whilst the attention of the room was focused on the unfortunate servant. “What’s happened that’s so horrible?”

“It’s-it’s the garden, ma’am,” the girl whimpered, and I felt a tug at the Woosterly heartstrings. “We were goin’ to set up the tea tables, b-but...”

“Spit it out already!”

“But your prized begonias is all dug up, ma'am!” the maid cried. “An’ the little monster what done it chased me’n the others back inside afore we could try to fix it.”

Lady Wickhammersley’s eyes went wide, then narrowed as she turned her head to look at Stiffy, slowly balling her hands into fists and flaring her nostrils. “What monster would that be, Gloria?”

“A dog, ma’am.” Gloria sniffled. “A little black dog.”

“Stephanie Ophelia Byng.” I’d only heard such cold fury contained in three words before: when my Aunt Agatha caught me, Stinker, and Tuppy finger-painting a cricket match onto her favorite pastoral scene. I couldn’t sit down without wincing for nearly a week after that, my nanny had been sacked, and Stinker and Tuppy had been banned from setting foot in Aunt Agatha’s house for two years.

“L-Lady Wickhammersley, I don’t know how...” Stiffy stuttered, looking like a rabbit faced with a hungry fox.

“Ms. Byng, you will retrieve that menace and depart from my home this instant!” Lady Wickhammersley screamed, slamming her fist into the table so hard that several plates and glasses rattled.

A sick sensation started in my stomach at the confusion and fear marring Stiffy’s features, but one look over Agatha’s head at Jeeves told me that it could no longer be stopped. The plan was in motion.

Stinker helped Stiffy up and they hurried toward the back of the house. Some three seconds of silence followed before the majority of the party rose and followed - the buzzing noblesse drawn toward the scent of scandal. Cynthia and I struggled to lead the swarm, catching up Stiffy and Stinker as they were pushing open the back doors and running toward the gardens.

“Bartholomew!” Stiffy yelled, seeing George Chilcott in the garden, protecting the last of the begonias from the fuzzy whirlwind of destruction with a chair as he yapped and snarled. “Leave him alone you stuffy old birder! He’s not trying to hurt anything! Oh, Bartholomew, stop!” The rest of the party had spread out to watch the spectacle, myself and Cynthia straying toward one of the few trees on the estate – an oaky affair with several low branches.

“Ready, my dear?” I whispered to Cynthia, catching her hand as Stiffy and Stinker reached the combatants.

“Better now than never,” she mumbled back, tensing.

I reached into my pocket, withdrew the whistle, cupped it in my hand and blew. Bartholomew went silent for a moment, and Stiffy tried to snag his collar. He jerked away with a howl of fury and barreled Wooster and Wickhammersley-ward.

“Good Lord! Bertie! Cynthia! Run!” Bingo hollered.

We didn’t need to be told twice. On feet as fleet as that Greek chappie with the winged boots, Cynthia and I legged it for the tree.

“Angela!” I heard someone call and chanced a look behind to see that, beyond Bartholomew’s shining white fangs, Tuppy had grasped my cousin close, ready to defend her from the little hellhound should he change direction without warning. Well, hopefully that was one other conflict resolved.

“Bertie, help!” Cynthia had reached the tree and was struggling upward. I’m afraid I was rather unceremonious about grasping her legs and shoving her onto the nearest branch. “ _Bertie_!”

I followed with Bartholomew snapping at my heels and continued up past her, pulling out the whistle and blowing again. The little chap went wild, yapping and snapping and generally ignoring all of Stiffy’s commands as Cynthia screamed for someone to help us.

“Bertram Wooster! You will get down from that tree and protect my daughter like a man!” Lady Wickhammersley shouted, the crowd drawing as close as it dared around our tenuous haven.

I stopped off blowing on the whistle long enough to shout back, “Lady Wickhammersley, I may be mentally negligible, but I’m not a bally idiot!”

“You coward!” she shrieked. “Someone save her! Someone save my–”

“Stop, George! He’ll tear your leg off!” That was Lord Wickhammersley, but George Chilcott broke free and raced toward Bartholomew. Cynthia was sobbing into her hands by that point, and I was fairly sure she wasn’t just pretending at the hysterics anymore. I felt like screaming and shaking myself, truth be told. Say what you will of this Wooster, but seeing a dog that could send Jeeves scrambling for the nearest high ground lunging at me with teeth bared was enough to drive the iron from the bravest of men’s spines.

“Cynthia!” I looked down in time to see Chilcott tackle Bartholomew, wrestling the brute into submission and clamping a hand over his muzzle until he whimpered his defeat.

Stiffy rushed forward, her makeup in streaks down her face, and hooked a leash to Bartholomew’s collar. Stinker was right by her side, hugging her as she knelt toward the toppled titan and petted his head, apologizing for the nasty man who’d hurt him.

For his part, Chilcott has turned his attention to the tree, holding his arms up for Cynthia. She jumped down, hugging him fiercely around the neck. “Oh, Geo!”

“Cynthia!”

The garden party broke into applause and Lord and Lady Wickhammersley rushed forward to hug and kiss their daughter and thank Chilcott for his heroism. Seemingly forgotten, I pocketed the whistle and climbed carefully down. I was just considering slinking away when Lady Wickhammersley’s voice stopped me.

“What do you have to say for all this, Ms. Byng? That-that _creature_ could have bitten my daughter and infected her with whatever manic disease he’s carrying.”

“He’s never acted like this before!” Stiffy insisted. “I don’t know what happened. He was in my room when I left.”

“ _Obviously_ he wasn’t,” Lady Wickhammersley returned. Tears welled up once more in Stiffy’s eyes, and my heart went out to her.

“Er, sorry... I don’t mean to interrupt,” I interjected with a wave. “It’s just, well... about Bartholomew...”

Everyone turned their eyes to me, most curious, Lady Wickhammersley furious, Chilcott and Cynthia confused, and Thumper and Sticky terrified.

“ _What_ about him, Mr. Wooster?”

“Ah... well... it’s a rummy thing.” I gulped under her narrowed gaze. In that moment, she bore a striking resemblance to the old nephew-crusher. “You see, Stiffy and I got into a bit of a tiff yesterday, so to get her back, I thought I’d... er... set the old four-legged fiend there free so that he could give her a bit of a scare when he was gone after she’d returned from breakfast. Never thought the little chap would find his way outside.”

“When did you let him out of the room, Mr. Wooster?” Lady Wickhammersley demanded. “You were down at breakfast when Ms. Byng arrived.”

“Oh. I suppose that’s right. Ah.” I began to sweat. “Ah, I paid a chap, one of the staff – can’t remember his name – to do the deed for me. Last night, you know. Cooked up the scheme and all that.”

“Bertie, you-you bounder!” Stiffy snarled. “How could you do something like that over a stupid... ugh!”

Stinker was looking none-too-pleased with me either.

“So,” Lady Wickhammersley began, stalking toward me, gripping my tie, and using it to jerk me forward, “not only are you an insufferable coward, you’re responsible for the destruction of my begonias _and_ putting poor Cynthia in harm’s way.”

“S-sorry?”

She slapped me so hard it left my ears ringing. “Get out of my house, Bertram Wooster. You will _never_ marry my daughter. There are obviously men far more worthy.” And here, she cast an approving eye upon Chilcott. “I shall be sending your aunt a letter with a _very_ detailed account of just what a worthless leech you are. Jeeves!” I spotted my man lurking in the crowd as she did. “Prepare your master’s things. He’s leaving.”

“Very good, madam.” He cast me a significant look, and I let myself breathe a sigh of relief as I stumbled away and back toward the house. At least the manuscript had been retrieved.

“Really, though, Bertram,” I mumbled to myself, rubbing the sting from my cheek, “you couldn’t have just gone with the plan, could you?”


	16. Chapter 14

I found Jeeves packing my valise in the room as Lady Wickhammersley had instructed him. However, he left off as I entered and came to examine me. “Sir, why did you not follow the plan?” he asked with a sigh as he lifted my chin and scrutinized what was undoubtedly a prominent red mark covering the left side of my face.

“I know. I know, Jeeves,” I muttered, unable to look him in the eye. “But I... she was crying so wretchedly, and Lady Wickhammersley was so angry. I couldn’t let poor Stiffy go down like that. She might be a positively venomous young filly, but never let it be said that we Woosters will stoop to the level of the Byngs when wronged. I gave her a scare and something to think about, and that should be more than enough... Well, more than ‘more than enough’. I rather think I’ll be writing a few letters of apology when we get home. One for Stiffy and one for Stinker. Might also be a good idea to plan for a trot to the continent. When Aunt Agatha hears about what happened, she’ll be breathing flames hot enough to start the next Great Fire of London.”

He’d paused in stroking his thumb along my jaw line, and I managed to wrench my gaze up, expecting to see exasperation or annoyance. What I had not been expecting in any way, shape, or form, was such open admiration. “It has well been said, sir, that ‘never does the human soul appear so strong and noble as when it forgoes revenge, and dares to forgive an injury.’” He shook his head. “You are a truly remarkable gentleman.”

“W-well...” I shrugged, a blush coloring my other cheek to match where Lady Wickhammersley had slapped me. “Just seems a dashed nuisance to stay mad about something, what? All that energy wasted and whatnot. I suppose there are those who–Mmph!”

Jeeves is generally good about letting me finish a thought, but ever since we’d started this lip-locking business, he’d shown himself willing to halt the young master’s babbling with a press of the ditto and a flick of the tongue. He moved his hands to my back, and I swung my arms up around his neck as he tipped me toward the floor. Eight marvelous seconds later, after the Jeevesian tongue had had its wicked way with Bertram, he was pulling me once more to an upright posish.

“That is why I love you, sir.” He offered that rare half-smile as I gaped at him like a landed trout.

“R-rather,” I stuttered after a moment.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and I started as Jeeves went stiff. He quickly readjusted my tie and coat before proceeding to the entryway when the knock sounded again.

“Bertie! Mr. Jeeves! It’s Agatha.”

Jeeves opened the door. “Good morning, Mrs. Christie. If you will wait for a moment, I will retrieve your manuscript.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very good, Mr. Jeeves.” Agatha flapped her hands at him, looking not a little like a flustered goose. “Bertie, what was that just now, and...” She trailed off, eyeing me critically. “I’m sorry, was I interrupting something?”

The woman was worse than Jeeves in the clair-whatsit department! I saw my man freeze for just a fraction of a second as he was gliding toward the nightstand where he’d placed the manuscript sometime earlier. It was long enough for Agatha to notice, though, hawk-eyed beazel that she was. “Ah... really, I am quite sorry, but that was such an extraordinary little scene downstairs that I had to catch you before you left!”

“You were not interrupting, madam,” Jeeves returned smoothly as he snatched up the envelope and moved to deposit it into Agatha’s waiting hands. “Mr. Wooster and I were merely discussing our plans for when we returned to London while I packed his valise.”

“Eager to get Bertie back home, Mr. Jeeves?”

“Madam?” His tone was edging toward soupy, so I decided it was time to intervene.

“She knows, Jeeves,” I said as I beckoned Agatha fully inside and closed the door behind her.

“What does she know, sir?” he asked, the picture of polite inquiry as he gathered my suits from the wardrobe and packed them away.

“I know that Bertie kissed you first, Mr. Jeeves.”

If I had thought him prickly after his unfortunate encounter with the Pumphrey-Devereuxs this morning, that was nothing compared to the frosty icicles shooting from his person now. “Do you indeed, madam?”

“C-calm down, Jeeves, she said we were safe,” I tried to reassure. “You aren’t going to tell anyone, right Agatha?”

She appeared thoroughly unfazed by Jeeves’ glacial demeanor, her nod firm and prompt. “That’s right, Mr. Jeeves, so there’s no need to glare at me until I ice over.”

“How did you come by this knowledge, madam?” And now the cold was drifting in my direction.

“Observation, Mr. Jeeves.” Her words sliced through the frigid fog before it could reach me. “Well, not about the kiss, but that you and Bertie had... had come to an understanding.”

Using his own words seemed to warm Jeeves to only a few degrees below-zero. “I take it Mr. Wooster informed you of the events last night at breakfast, then, madam?”

“Only after I’d pushed him, Mr. Jeeves.” She blushed, looking down and away now. “I really am sorry, I was just... I’m a terrible busybody sometimes and this was... Well, I’m just so happy to see you and Bertie happy. You were practically grinning at each other over breakfast, so I knew something must have happened.”

“Were we really?” I grimaced.

“Not so anyone who wasn’t watching for it would notice,” Agatha assured. “I’ve just been on the lookout, as it were.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why would you even want to know about two coves coming to an understanding, though, Agatha, old fruit? It’s all frightfully strange, and _I’m_ a cove who’s involved.”

“You know that I write romance novels under a pseudonym, right?” I blinked at this rather peculiar non sequi-whatsit – the one that means it doesn’t follow properly from one thingummy to the next.

“Mary Westmacott, wasn’t it? Sounds properly romance-y, what?” I refrained from pulling a face at this as it wouldn’t be at all in keeping with the dignity of the _preux chevalier_. I did love Agatha’s murder-mysteries, but why anyone would want to read a book purely about a bird and a beazel becoming besotted with one another was beyond me. There were far more interesting things to read about... like the life cycle of newts.

“Yes, well, that’s not my only pseudonym.” I followed her gaze to my man. “You might know my other work, Mr. Jeeves. It’s published as Randall Hart.”

Jeeves drew in a sharp breath, eyebrows shooting up more than a quarter of an inch. I found my own brows rising at his reaction. “Am I to understand, madam, that you are responsible for the Hollinger’s Fire Brigade series?”

“Do you like it?” Worry had overtaken her features as I shifted my confused gape between the pair of them. “It’s not like I have much opportunity to ask the intended audience.”

“Indeed, madam. They are most... stimulating reading.”

“Someone mind cluing Bertram in?” I requested, raising my hands helplessly. “It’s all well and good Agatha’s been writing under the name of some author chap you know, Jeeves, but what’s it got to do with anything?”

“Sir, Randall Hart’s novels detail the lives and relationships of gentlemen of our particular persuasion. They are banned from most reputable dealers not only for the nature of the characters involved, but because of the... explicit manner in which certain intimate scenes are described.”

My gape took a turn for the flat out goggling, and I knew I must have looked just a bit like those little comic chappies in the Sunday papers with their eyes bugging out. “Y-you mean to say you write about chaps who... and the... with the...!” I fear I was doing my impression of a 12-year-old choirboy again, squeaking somewhere in the upper register.

“It’s just something that I do as a side project.” Agatha had turned a rather striking shade of rosé, as well, and even Jeeves was coloring around the edges. Doing certain whatsits with one’s specific dream rabbit could be an enjoyable diversion, but writing about it? Well, it had the most interesting sorts of thoughts hopping about this Wooster’s lemon.

A sound like a sheep coughing somewhere upon the distant moor brought my attention back to Jeeves. “Perhaps you would like to have Mrs. Christie sign one of her books for you while I pack, sir? I believe an exchange of signatures was called for.”

“Oh! Certainly.” Agatha grinned as I led her over to the armchair and motioned for her to sit down. “It seems only fair.” I fished my copy of _The Murder on the Links_ from the desk draw and handed it over along with a pen. She set her manuscript aside, placed a finger to her lips in a pensive moment, then opened the book and began to write.

“You know, Bertie, this is an excellent distraction,” she related as she wrote. “But you never did tell me what was going on in the garden this morning.”

“Ahah!” I took to studying a spot on the wall above her head with the intent to memorize its every minute detail. “D-didn’t you hear me explaining to Lady Wickhammersley, Agatha, old can of fruit? Just a row with Stiffy. Getting her back, showing her what for, and-and so forth. Things got a bit out of hand was all.”

She glared up at me, snapping the book shut. “Is that so?”

“Quite so!”

“What did you think of the rest of my manuscript, then?” Her eyes were narrowed, and I felt like I’d been singled out for a quiz on the geography of India precisely because the schoolmaster _knew_ I hadn’t done my reading.

“Er...”

“I believe you were telling me, sir,” Jeeves interjected, “that you could discern no further grammatical or continuity errors in the remainder of the volume to which you had access, and that your suspicions regarding the butler John Parker had been dispelled.”

“Ah, that’s right, Jeeves. Dispelled. Completely dispelled!” I agreed.

“Well, who do you think it was, then?” Agatha demanded.

I groped for the first name I could think of, which happened to be, “Geoffrey. The... er... secretary chap.”

“Do you agree with that Mr. Jeeves?” she wondered after running her keen eyes across my map a few more times.

“I could not say, madam.” More like he wouldn’t say from the momentary flick of his gaze in my direction. “It is a most puzzling mystery. Shall we proceed downstairs, sir? I will load the luggage and bring the car around if you will wait out front.”

“Righto, Jeeves! I’ll meet you down there, then.”

“Very good, sir. Madam, it has been my pleasure, and I look forward to your future novels... under all of your pseudonyms.” With a downright friendly nod in Agatha’s direction, he took both the valises and shimmered away.

Agatha was still casting the leery eye Wooster-ward, so I preempted further inquiry by offering her my arm and saying, “Would you walk with me downstairs for the last hurrah, old fruit? Shame I won’t get to finish your novel until it comes out properly, but it should give me plenty of time to figure out who did it, what?”

Her face softened, and she grabbed her manuscript while I snatched up my novel. We descended to the level of the foyer, feet quiet as... well, as something that’s rather quiet, in the hopes of avoiding any of the garden party who would want to biff me over the head for endangering their loved ones or congratulate me for causing such an entertaining ruckus. We’d just passed a rather gaudy set of vases when a noise from one of the side rooms pulled us both up short.

“Oh, Hildebrand!” I heard my cousin Angela all but groan, and I snapped my head toward the music room from whence the sound had emanated. Agatha and I exchanged a look before tip-toeing over. It wasn’t my usual custom to go dropping eaves on my cousin, but I was rather eager to find out if Angela and Tuppy were still going at each other like the proverbial fox and hound.

“Angela, I would have protected you from that fiend with my life,” I heard Tuppy reply. “Hah! Climbing up a tree? That’s for spineless little beanpoles like Bertie Wooster.”

“I s–” Agatha cut off my outraged exclamation by slapping her hand across my maw and placing a finger to her lips. We backed away slowly as Tuppy laid further abuse upon my character, physical appearance, and mental capacity – or ‘lack thereof’, as he called it – and Angela cooed and cheered.

“Well, I like that!” I snarled as we pushed through the front doors and out to the drive. “I get attacked by a bally hellhound, slapped by the lady of the house, and he uses the opportunity to... to...” I trailed off as this sunk into the Wooster gray matter. “Tuppy and Angela are back together again because of me.”

Agatha smiled at me, more than a touch of the wry about it. “So glad you noticed, Bertie. He yelled at Ms. Byng for good measure after you ran off, telling her that she should have Bartholomew’s teeth pulled out with pliers.”

I let the mental image of the four-legged brute gumming my leg flit across the mind’s eye and couldn’t help snorting. “I could go in for that sort of whatsit,” I agreed, a grin supplanting the scowl I’d worn not long before. “I’d even pay for the surgery!”

Just then, Jeeves pulled around with the car and stepped out to hold the door for me.

“Agatha,” I began, turning so that I could look at her fully, “it’s really been the most fantastic time getting to know you. If you’re ever in London, give me a ring, and I should be happy to show you around town.”

“Likewise for me if you’re ever in the Sunningdale area, Bertie. But I really hope that won’t be the next we talk. You know I’m only a telephone call away, and I shall be expecting letters and cards at Christmas now. One doesn’t like to meet one of her favorite novelists without dragging them into a bit of personal correspondence.”

“You really are the boldest sort of beazel, aren’t you?” I laughed and opened my arms for a hug. It was a bit awkward between the novel I was holding and her manuscript, but we managed it. She even added a peck on the cheek before waving to Jeeves.

“You’re a very lucky man, Mr. Jeeves. I do expect you to take good care of Mr. Wooster now that... well...” She made that curious wiggling motion with her hands again.

“Indeed, madam,” he returned. “I intend to see to it that matters continue to advance to Mr. Wooster’s and my mutual satisfaction.”

She nodded, then paused. “Oh, and one other thing...”

Quick as a cobra, her hand snapped out and caught my ear, twisting until I yelped. Then, she released it to wag a finger in under my nose. “If you _ever_ lose one of my manuscripts and then try to hide that fact from me again, Bertie Wooster, I should be very cross with you, indeed. And you, Mr. Jeeves!” The glare redirected at my man. “You should know better than that.”

I had clapped a hand over this newest injury, so her warning may have lost some of its fire given that distraction. “Sorry, Agatha,” I managed after a moment of cowed silence. “Er... I just... I didn’t want to worry you, what?”

She pursed her lips, then relented with a sigh. “I have enough of men lying to me at home, Bertie. I don’t need it from my friends, as well.” The rather volatile authoress patted my shoulder, and I struggled not to flinch. “You’re a fine gentleman, but you really can’t keep a secret from someone who’s paying half a mind. Do try to work on that. You’ll need to be quite careful about a particular secret from now on.”

I nodded my agreement with all the fervor of a chap held at gunpoint. “Of course, old fruit. Whatever you say!”

She smiled at me again, but it was more wistful than happy. “Have a safe drive, Bertie, and never stop writing. I’ll be looking for your next novel.”

“You’ll have the first printed copy signed on your doorstep the day after it comes out,” I assured her, feeling that tingly whatsit about the ocular region once more. “Well, toodle pip, then, Mrs. Christie!”

“Goodbye, Mr. Wooster,” she replied. “I shall miss you quite dearly.” We embraced one more time, then parted as I turned to climb into the two-seater.

“Madam.” Jeeves tipped his bowler and popped in after me, closing the door.

“A final word of warning, Mr. Jeeves?” Agatha requested as he put the car into gear.

“Yes, Mrs. Christie?”

“If you ever hurt him, know that my next story will involve the disemboweling, shredding, and otherwise-brutal murdering of a character in pinstriped trousers.” She added as an afterthought, “And I think I shall have my hero wearing blue paisley waistcoats with orange ties.”

Jeeves turned about three shades of green and looked near to vomiting. “I could not advise it, madam,” he replied, gripping the steering wheel as if it were the last thing he would ever hold. “You have my word that I shall protect Mr. Wooster and see that no harm comes to his reputation or person due to our understanding.”

This seemed to satisfy her, and she stepped away, beaming. “Farewell!”

We drove off, Agatha Christie and Twing Hall disappearing in the rearview.

“Quite the interesting beazel, eh, Jeeves?” I asked as we drove along.

“Indeed, sir. Mrs. Christie is in equal measure a kind and cruel woman.”

“Ah, threatening to kill a valet in her books if you ticked me off well and proper, what?”

He glanced at me as if I had lost what little mind I had. “No, sir. I can only imagine the horror of a blue paisley waistcoat and orange tie. It is a combination the likes of which may be seared into my nightmares for many years to come.”

I blinked at him. “Jeeves, have I told you lately that I love you?”

“Indeed not, sir. However, I can assure you that I return the sentiment most ardently.”

“That’s wonderful, Jeeves, because you’re also one of the oddest birds I’ve ever met.”

“As you say, sir.” He didn’t sound quite so ardent just then, but I suppose being called ‘odd’ would ruffle a bird like Jeeves’ feathers.

I cast about quickly for a less ruffle-inducing topic. “So, what did you have in mind for when we get back to the flat? You mentioned something... something further than, erm... oral stimulation?”

And there was a smirk creeping across the Jeevesian map. “Indeed I did, sir. A practical demonstration would, perhaps, be more instructive than a verbal explanation in this instance, though.”

“Oh... well, we Woosters are nothing if not geared toward the practical.”

“That did factor into my thinking, sir.”

“Make haste, then, my man!” I instructed. “I should like this demonstration thingummy in the soon-to-near timeframe.”

“As should I, sir.” And strike me down with the bolt of Zeus himself if Jeeves didn’t look two steps off from a full-on grin.

That dealt with, I settled back into my seat and flipped open _The Murder on the Links_ to see what Agatha had written.

_‘To Mr. Bertram Wooster,_

_Be brilliant and shine like the stars. You bring light into the world with your novels, and I should never wish that to change. There are so few who can appreciate the simple joy of just being. Thank you for reminding me that the night is never so dark as it appears._

_With the Kindest Regard,  
Agatha Christie’_


	17. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the ever-lovely Mice (erynn999)

We arrived back at the flat around lunchtime, and as Jeeves parked the car, my midsection growled its displeasure despite having been fed two hearty portions of eggs and b. this morning. Waking at an unholy hour and escaping the jaws of a hellhound could really take it out of a chap, though. I wouldn’t say I was knackered, but there was a bit of a hollow feeling in the Wooster tum that manifested as a something-or-other... American cowboys come into it somehow. Lassos? Lassitude! There’s the devil. Bertram entered the flat with a certain lassitude, followed closely by Jeeves with the luggage.

“I apologize for the delay, sir,” he said in a tone as near to a grumble as he ever came as he set down the valises, and removed his hat and gloves before taking mine, as well, and putting them away. “I will prepare your luncheon directly.”

“It’s all right, Jeeves,” I replied, trying to mollify him. “I would hardly expect even a paragon like you to be able to predict an ungu-whatsit invasion of the road.”

“Ungulate, sir,” he corrected as he carried the luggage into the bedroom and set it down.

“Those are the chaps,” I agreed. “And I do have to say, it was fairly entertaining watching you trying to reason with that old Bessie with the bell. How was it?” I drew myself up and put on my best impression of his stuffed frog face. “‘Madam, I must inform you that if you continue with this impertinent behavior and refuse to remove yourself from the premises, I shall see you removed to the nearest butcher’s chopping block.’”

“A most willful animal, sir,” Jeeves returned soupily as I followed him into the kitchen.

“It was a cow, Jeeves!” I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “What did you expect would happen if you stuck a hand in its face? Besides,” I continued with Bertram’s most salacious wink – a recently developed addition to the ‘Bertram’s most whatsit’ expressions repertoire – as I planted myself in one of the chairs at the table, “I would have thought you’d like a bit of tongue.”

His ebony brow rose a molecule or two as he fetched various supplies and shot back, “Given the extent and nature of our carnal relations thus far, sir, I believe that observation is better suited to yourself.”

I felt my ears and cheeks burning hot at this pronouncement and quickly took to examining the table for any speck of dirt or grime. As none were forthcoming, I was forced to shift my gaze back to Jeeves after a few seconds. Thankfully, he was busying himself with the food. I had to remember that for every bold remark this Wooster dared to make regarding matters of an inverted nature, Jeeves probably had twenty or so quips waiting in the wings that were perfectly designed to turn me into a stuttering lump of cherry-flavored jelly.

Well, I would just have to fix that. We Woosters are made of sterner stuff than jellies, and not even silver-tongued Jeeveses could completely rob us of our coy suavity. I had seen him come undone once this morning, and I fully intended to have a repeat performance this afternoon when both of us were in a state of _dishabille_.

“So, when did you get involved in this inverted business?” I asked as I watched my man work his wonders by the stove.

“Are you inquiring when I first became aware of my preferences or when I entered my first understanding with another gentleman, sir?”

Other gentlemen? The green dragon of jealousy reared his head and began pumping the Wooster veins with acid. “The first one, Jeeves. The preferences,” I fairly bit out as I tried to contain the roaring beast within.

“Are you all right, sir?” He cast a worried glance in my direction as he began sautéing a chicken breast I’d watched him slice and marinate just moments ago.

“Fine, Jeeves. Perfectly fine.” I’d been engaged more times than I could shake a stick at, so I hadn’t any right to be complaining. Which, coming to think on it, is a rather odd turn of phrase. I mean, what sort of chap runs about and decides one day: ‘Well, that abstract whatsit that’s been plaguing me has really reached the absolute bally limit today, and I think I shall shake a stick at it.’?

“I first became aware of my preferences while serving as a page boy in an all-girls school, sir,” he explained, sensing my disinterest in proceeding with his particular line of inquiry. “While the other boys serving with me found themselves growing enamored of some of the young ladies at the school, I found my interests lay elsewhere.”

“In the other boys, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never even gave the fillies a go, then? Just to test the waters?”

“While I find the female of the species a most interesting study and have often admired the profile of certain ladies of my acquaintance, sir, I have never engaged in a romantic liaison with one.” He paused for a moment to remove the chicken from the stove and set it aside to cool for a moment as he prepared the rest of what would undoubtedly be a gourmet sandwich. “If you feel this is an unacceptable gap in my knowledge, I shall seek to remedy it post haste.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” I snarled, shooting up with my hands slamming on the table. When he shot me an amused-smirk, I realized with some chagrin that he’d only been teasing me and that I’d risen to the bait.

“Is this your version of revenge for me poking fun at your skills in bovine diplomacy, Jeeves?” I harrumphed, sitting back down.

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, sir,” he returned in a voice that I recognized as meaning ‘Indeed, sir.’ “If you would like to eat, I will unpack the luggage.”

Jeeves set the sandwich he’d prepared before me, and my mouth began to water at the heavenly aroma drifting off of it. He started to shimmer away when I realized there was something amiss here. “Jeeves, there’s something amiss here,” I informed him. “Why the devil are you running off to unpack when you haven’t eaten yet? You’ve gone just as long without strapping on the old nosebag as me. Sit, man! Eat!”

“Sir, that would be highly improper. I am perfectly fine. I will take my repast after–”

“Jeeves, you’ve had your mouth on one of the most intimate portions of the young master’s anatomy. I hardly think we need stand on what is ‘proper’,” I interrupted, motioning to the chair beside me. “I said eat with me. Consider it a direct order from the y.m. I shouldn’t like you to collapse while we’re engaged in these activities you have planned for us. I would feel the most callous sort of slave-driver if you did.”

“I can assure you, sir,” he responded dryly, “I am not prone to collapse.”

“Jeeves, if I have to ask you again, you will not like the consequences.” He matched my heated glare with a frosty disapproval that had warded off many of this Wooster’s more brazen requests. Not today. I stood and saw him stiffen, preparing, perhaps, for me to attempt to manhandle my manservant. Instead of attacking head on, I took a more ‘round about approach, though, placing my arms on his shoulders and pressing close to kiss him.

A thrill of delight shot through me as he started, then moved to bring his hands up to my hips. I pulled away and backed up out of reach before he could grasp me, though.

“Sir?” he demanded, a very displeased tilt to his mouth.

“Afraid that’s all you get until you’ve eaten, Jeeves.” I motioned to the sandwich.

I thought for just a moment he might stamp his foot and tell me to go and boil my head as his lips drew to a thin line. Instead he said, “It would seem you have been taking lessons from Ms. Byng in extortion, sir.” Then, he relented, sighing in that quiet way he has and retrieving another plate from the cabinet. He took half of the sandwich from my plate and sat down to eat.

I grinned at him. “I could get used to this, Jeeves,” I related, picking up my half of the sandwich and biting into it.

“To what, sir?”

“Getting my way.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “You may find, sir, that should you employ such a tactic on any regular basis, you may not enjoy the consequences.”

“What do you mean, Jeeves?” I asked, suddenly less certain of my new-found ace in the whatsit.

“I mean, sir, that either party in a relationship may employ similar tactics, perhaps when matters relate to certain undesirable itemries of clothing or facial adornments.”

“You make your point with a jagged edge, Jeeves,” I acknowledged with a wince. “Er... sorry about earlier, then. Still getting used to this whole whatsit.”

“Indeed, sir,” he allowed as he consumed his meal in precise, measured bites that prevented any of the juices from dribbling onto the plate. “It is not an etiquette with which I would expect you to be familiar.” He looked over from his sandwich and caught my eye. To this day, I haven’t the faintest idea how he managed to look so lecherous with a half-eaten sandwich in his hands and a tiny bit of dressing dotting the corner of his mouth as he added, “However, I intend to begin your education on such matters once I have returned your garments to their proper places in the wardrobe.”

We finished the rest of the meal in silence, me occasionally peeking up at my man, and him quirking his mouth suggestively whenever he noticed me looking. That small spot of dressing continued to capture my interest for some indefinable reason, and each time he moved to wipe his face and missed it, I found myself licking my lips, the little Wooster taking a distinct interest, as well.

Being far less careful about my eating habits, I was finished with my sandwich first. So it was that when Jeeves finished the last bite of his, and the spot of dressing still remained, I fairly lunged at the man, licking it away before plunging my tongue into his mouth. I pulled back, chest rising and falling swiftly in tandem with his.

“Sir, I must tend to the dishes and luggage before we–”

If he could still think about silly things like dishes and luggage, Bertram obviously wasn’t doing his job. I kissed him again for good measure, this time allowing him to push over into my own mouth. By the time we ended our embrace, I was half into Jeeves’ lap and his pupils had widened to twin lagoons of dark and terribly inviting waters.

“We should repair to the bedroom if we are to carry this further, sir,” he managed as I began working at the knot on his tie. “Please, sir.” He pushed my hand away, and I frowned. “I would not wish you to be uncomfortable and at this rate, I fear I may take you here.”

My frown tilted toward bemusement as the Wooster gray matter kicked in. “Why would you take me here, Jeeves? We’re already here.”

I could see a range of emotions fighting for dominance on my man’s face before he settled on mildly-amused. “It is a euphemism, sir. I should like to make love to you. The kitchen table is not the ideal location for our first encounter, especially when I have not cleaned it in over three days.”

He eased me back into my own chair and then stood, snatching the plates before I could protest to place them in the sink with the other dishes. He washed his hands as I rose and crossed my arms in a huff. Really, I’d seen mules less stubborn than my man when it came to matters domestic. As an apology, he snogged me quite thoroughly before lacing his fingers together with mine and tugging me out of kitchen and toward the bedroom. Being the not-so-easily-placated sort, I demanded another long kiss half-way across the sitting room, pushing him back against the settee and groaning into his mouth just a little as he insinuated his leg between my own and pressed on the little Wooster.

We made it to the master bedroom with me all but clawing at his, jacket, waistcoat, and any other piece of him I could reach. This was what I had been waiting for: the chance to see my man in the altogether.

He was rather more methodical about undressing me, seemingly unaffected by my own desperate attempts to disrobe him as he proceeded much as he always does when preparing me for a bath, or dinner, or bed. The blighter even turned away and began hanging the clothes he collected from me.

“Jeeves!” I cried in frustration once he’d gotten me down to my undervest and pants and all I’d managed were his tie, jacket, and three buttons on his waistcoat. “If you don’t drop those clothes right this instant and look just as undone as I feel, I should be very cross with you!”

He froze in hanging my trousers in the wardrobe. Well, I say he froze, but in that relative stillness, I finally noticed a small tremor running through his body and hands. He hung the trousers in their proper place and turned slowly back to look at me, taking a deep breath. “I apologize, sir, but I am very near to breaking. This is one of the few ways I know of to maintain full control over my faculties. Please bear with me for a short while, and I shall attend to your needs directly.”

“Oh... c-certainly, Jeeves.” I hung my head, the little Wooster wilting a bit, as well. Here I was only thinking of myself when Jeeves was another and very important part of this equation. If he needed time to prepare, I’d jolly well give him all the time he needed. Getting worked up so much was likely the mark of a novice and a chump.

“Sir.” Jeeves’ hands on my chest were warm as they ran up to my shoulders, along my neck, and across my jaw. He cupped my face, then, lifting it up so that I was staring at him. “Please do not look so nervous. I did not mean to imply that I am not eager for this experience.” He let go and drew my undervest over my head, touch dancing across my torso. “I am, in fact, overeager and would not wish to end this most happy occasion prematurely.”

“I didn’t think you were supposed to worry about control in this sort of thingummy, Jeeves,” I returned as I attacked his buttons once more.

“A lesson, sir: One likes to see to the satisfaction of his partner before deriving his own satisfaction.”

I pushed back his waistcoat and unhooked his suspenders with a cry of triumph. Then, I considered his words. “But, how does that work if both partners are trying to see to the other’s satisfaction before their own? Rummy sitch when neither one is allowed to be satisfied first, what?”

He coughed. “It is generally assumed that the dominant partner will see to the other’s needs first. If I may, sir?” he inquired as I struggled with the buttons on his shirt. “This will go more quickly if I assist.”

“Assist away, Jeeves!” I agreed readily. Anything to get these blasted clothes off of him.

“Very good, sir.” He reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew a small container of something that he tossed on the bed before stripping himself in a blink.

“Good Lord, Jeeves! If I’d known you could do that, I wouldn’t have bothered trying to undress you.”

He let a smirk slide across his features. “Your attempts were most gratifying in their own way, sir.”

“W-well, quite,” I replied, blushing once more. He had left his pants on, presumably to mirror my own state, but I couldn’t help taking the opportunity to stretch out my hand and just touch him. I shivered and the little Wooster perked up once more, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about when you call me beautiful, Jeeves,” I mumbled, tracing the muscles on his midsection, delighting in the tiny paunch around his middle and how he colored just a bit when I poked at it, “but you’re bally gorgeous.”

“Sir, may I make a request?”

“Hmm? Anything, old fruit.”

“Will you allow me to take you?”

I blinked at him. “I thought that was the whole point of this, Jeeves. I’d be a terrible tease if we’d made it this far and decided to call in for a refund, what?”

“Yes, sir, but there is... for two gentlemen, there are many ways to reach satisfaction, but the particular method I have in mind requires one partner to take and the other to receive.”

“It’s your game, Jeeves.” I shrugged. “Can’t really know which one I’ll like without trying them both out, what? Your wanting one over the other solves the issue better than a coin toss would, I’d warrant.”

“You are a very generous man, sir.” He raised my hands up from their wandering over his body and kissed each of them before drawing me in for a kiss on the mouth. As our bare skin touched, I felt an electric shock shoot through me, emanating from my middle down to my toes and up to the roots on my hair. I ran my hands through Jeeves’ brilliantined locks, making sure they were good and mussed before we pulled apart, both panting.

“If you’ll remove your pants and lie on your back on the bed, sir, I should be able to prepare you,” he said, tone going rather dark.

“R-right.” I shucked off my pants and crawled onto the bed, lying as I’d been instructed. “Like this, Jeeves?”

I looked over to see that he had removed his own pants, freeing the little Jeeves for my appraisal. “Yes, sir,” he breathed, gliding over and sitting down. He reached for a pillow over my head and had me lift my hips so that he could place it under them. It seemed more than a little odd, and I was beginning to feel embarrassed as he collected the container he’d thrown on the bed earlier and opened the top.

“What is that, Jeeves?” I queried.

“Petroleum jelly, sir,” he explained, gently maneuvering my legs so that they were spread farther apart with him kneeling in the between. “I’m afraid you may feel some initial discomfort as I breach you, but I can assure you that this will dissipate.”

“Breach?” I demanded. “What do you mean by br–Oh!”

The jelly was cold as Jeeves swirled it over a certain opening that I rarely gave thought to save when I’d eaten my fill of bad seafood. The little Wooster and I weren’t sure how we felt about this, but I trusted Jeeves, and it was really only this trust that kept me on the same bed as him as he dipped a finger into that c.o.

“Jeeves!” I hissed, the little Wooster deciding it didn’t like the turn of these events at all.

“Please try to relax, sir,” Jeeves soothed, using his other hand to stimulate my faltering whatsit. At the same time, he applied kisses to the inside of my thighs and continued to work just the one slick finger in and out of me. Under the affectionate assault, I found myself relaxing, and even the little Wooster began to rally around as the strange sensation of having my man plumb the depths of something other than my mouth diminished.

“This is all so very strange, old thing,” I related as he shifted from stroking the little Wooster to kneading the muscles along my legs as he had when he’d done that rather nice thing with his mouth. “I mean, it’s not really something a chap would expect to do with... Well, that’s not the generally accepted usage, what?”

“Indeed, sir?” I felt him remove his jelly-slicked finger and was surprised to find a rumble of disapproval emanating from somewhere in my chest.

“I said strange, Jeeves, not bad,” I grumbled, frowning at him. “Do carry on.”

His eyebrow and one side of his mouth rose in unison. “As you wish, sir.”

The next time I felt him touch me down below my line of vision, it was with two fingers, which soon became three. I began shifting a bit and making... well, I suppose a chap could call them manful whimpers of need. What I needed, though, I wasn’t quite certain until I moved one more time and the angle of Jeeves’ finger-thrusts changed.

Something happened, then, like I’d just had a shot of pure whiskey poured into every nerve ending in my body. “ _Jeeves_!” I fairly screamed, bucking up and dislodging his fingers.

“I think, perhaps, you are ready, sir."

“You’re bally well right, I am!” I returned, sucking in deep lungfuls of the good stuff. I was beginning to have an idea what he was making me ready for, and having felt the little Jeeves in my hand, I was ready to feel him inside of me if he was anything like Jeeves’ fingers. It was a moderately terrifying prospect, of course. There’s a sizable difference in the length and breadth of a few fingers compared to a gentleman’s personal gentleman’s most intimate parts, but every fiber in me was demanding that _something_ be done to quell this raging need, and that this something come from my man.

Jeeves used what was left of the jelly on his hand to coat the little Jeeves, then added a bit more from the container before positioning my legs to his liking and lining himself up with my entrance. “Are you certain you’re–”

“I love you, Jeeves,” I groaned. “Now _get on with it_!”

He needed no further encouragement, the little Jeeves breaching me and pushing in an inch at a time. It was a bit uncomfortable, but the jelly and Jeeves’ preparation smoothed the way. Still, he matched my breathing, going a little farther with each exhale until he was sheathed fully within my body.

I had to look up a few words to describe that moment, because one really just can’t cover the full whatsit of the matter. Joy seems a good enough place to start, with ecstasy following on its heels, giving way to sheer and unadulterated bliss at the outside. I stared up into his deep blue eyes as he finally took me, and I saw, reflecting there, a little of what I felt. I suspect Jeeves would have all sorts of Greek and philosopher chappies to allude to in order to convey the rightness of that particular instant, but Bertram must content himself with the popular tunes of the day: ‘For he’s the one who taught this happy heart of mine to fly.’

“Perfect,” he murmured before leaning down to kiss me with his body braced against my legs. He withdrew and thrust in again, rocking gently back and forth in a maddeningly slow rhythm. Each time he plunged forward, I heard the silliest moans escaping from my lips, but I really couldn’t be bothered to stop just then.

As his languid thrusts continued unabated, I found myself becoming not a little impatient as I returned the favor by lapping at one of the pert nipples within my sights. Jeeves seemed to like this as he practically purred his approval. Yet still he was taking his time as if young Bertram _wasn’t_ writhing beneath him like a... well, like a thing that writhes.

“I’m not going to... to break, Jeeves,” I panted. “And you’re–”

He silenced me with a kiss, finally speeding up. “I suppose I should not be surprised that you are a remarkably vocal lover, sir,” he returned when we parted.

“Would you... prefer if I were... I were gagged, Jeeves?” I managed.

And then my man, distinguished and ever-appropriate Mr. Reginald Jeeves, groaned, a full and throaty sound that made the little Wooster twitch with interest. “Sir... if you wish me to maintain myself until you reach your completion, you will need to refrain from suggesting such... situations.”

That did intrigue, but I forgot about such intrigues as Jeeves found that spot that lit me on fire once more. “Jeeves! Oh, Jeeves! My good Lord vaulting off a high dive!” I clawed desperately at his back, craning up to kiss his chest, shoulders, neck... really anywhere I could reach. Each thrust was a bolt of pleasure so intense it had multi-colored dots winking in and out of my vision.

“That is a... a blasphemy, sir.”

“Well, God can go to Hell!” And I’d see him to the door and down the staircase!

Jeeves used one of his hands to grasp the little Wooster, pleasuring me from both angles, and I had trouble deciding which one was better. His thrusts became more erratic and powerful as I continued to blaspheme with best of the English blue-bloods.

“Please, love! Please!” I begged, having lost most of my vocabulary between the little Jeeves between my legs and the big Jeeves’ hand that had begun tugging at the sacks located just below the little Wooster.

“Sir!” I opened my eyes wide, hands still scrabbling across his sweat-slicked back, and saw Jeeves was begging as well. “Come for me, sir!”

I’m firmly convinced that there must be some sort of whatsit in the way he says those words because I never seem to be able to refuse. I arched my back, thankful that Jeeves was a rather solid cove who’s able to withstand a good bucking, as I shouted my man’s name to God in Heaven, or Hell, or wherever else he might be holidaying. My release spattered Jeeves’ hand and my belly seconds later, the most extraordinary pulse shooting through and out of me.

I vaguely heard Jeeves’ cry of “Bertram!” as I lost myself to that thoughtless haze of euphoria.

When I came back to earth, descending from those fluffy clouds of something-or-other, it was to find a rather dazed valet using my midsection as a pillow. Jeeves was sprawled across me, hugging my waist with his head resting on my chest. I smiled to myself and ran my fingers through his hair until he came around.

“Sir, that was...”

“Marvelous? Topping? The real tobasco?” I suggested.

He pursed his lips, then continued in his most serious voice, “It was a satisfactory conclusion, sir.”

“Jeeves, if you continue like that, I shall strike you with a pillow,” I warned.

“I could not advise it, sir,” he returned, but now there was a definite hint of a smirk edging its way around the stolid mien.

“Well, I could. I find it a very effective means of unraveling stuffy valets. Oh... oh, I say! Did I hear you calling me Bertram when you...?”

Worry creased his brow. “I apologize, sir, I did not mean to offend you. In the height of passion I–”

I placed my hand over his mouth. “And they say I babble? It’s not a problem, old thing. I should think it only proper that a chap call his specific dream rabbit by his Christian name.”

Jeeves winced. “Sir, I would prefer the term 'lover', if we are to assign labels. I should hardly like to be compared with an easily-startled woodland creature, specific or otherwise.”

“Lover, eh? And...” I paused, stroking a hand along his shoulder for fortitude. “And would it be too improper to call you Reginald, old thing?”

“I have just thoroughly debauched you, Bertram, I hardly think we need stand on what is ‘proper’.”

I grinned and prodded him in mock indignation. “Now I really am going to hit you with a pillow, Reginald. You don’t get to steal the young master’s words for your own.”

“May I steal your kisses, then?” He did not wait for an answer as he lifted himself up and pressed his lips to mine before licking, kissing, and nipping his way down my neck to my collar bone.

“Mm... you’re ridiculously soppy sometimes, you know, Reginald Jeeves?”

“As you say, Bertram,” he agreed. “I had thought, given your own inclinations toward the romantic, which you hide quite poorly, such conduct might be excused.”

“You have a point there.” I sighed, and he rolled off of me, sitting up. Without his firm body to hide it, I caught sight of the mess on the Wooster tum and the bed and wrinkled my nose. “Bit sloppy this inverted business, what?”

“Indeed, sir. This would be the reason I waited to change the linens. I believe a bath is in order, though. If you would permit me the liberty of attending you?”

He slid off the bed and offered his arm to me.

“Attend away, old thing,” I replied, rising and grasping my man. “Attend away.”


	18. Epilogue

Dear Stiffy,

I wanted to apologize for what happened with Bartholomew at Twing Hall. I realize it was far out of line, but you must know that I never intended for it to go quite that far. I’d just returned from where you’d left me to wallow in Ginny’s Lake, my new trousers torn and my leg bleeding, and I was in a dreadfully foul mood. I acted before I could wrap my head around the imple-whatsits of the decision. Really, I am sorry, old thing. You’ve had done worse to me, so I know I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up, but you’d stolen Agatha’s manuscript after blackmailing me with the possibility of Cynthia being carted off to some wretched old bounder in India. You can understand why I was in a bit of a state, what?

In any case, it was mean and nasty and far beneath this Wooster to act in so childish and petty a manner. I hope you can forgive me in time. I wish you, Stinker, and Bartholomew the best and am sending along a package of chocolates for you and treats for Bartholomew with this missive. I know that’s small recompense for making a girl cry, but it’s a start. If there’s something else I can do to make it up to you, please do let me know. I’ve been feeling the worse sort of scoundrel ever since the garden party.

With Deepest Regret,  
Bertram W. Wooster

\--- --- ---

BERTRAM WOOSTER  
BERKLEY MANSIONS. LONDON.  
BERTIE YOU SLUG. RECEIVED LETTER FROM DRUSCILLA WICKHAMMERSLEY TODAY. YOU BRING SHAME TO NAME OF WOOSTER. CYNTHIA NO LONGER PROSPECT DUE TO YOUR INCOMPETENCE. YOU WILL COME FOR LUNCH TOMORROW TO SORT OUT MESS. BETHLY-PARSONS GIRL RECENTLY AVAILABLE. WHY WAS I CURSED WITH SUCH AN INSUFFERABLE NEPHEW. GREGSON.

\--- --- ---

AGATHA GREGSON  
BUMPLEIGH HALL. STEEPLE BUMPLEIGH. HAMPSHIRE.  
DEEPEST REGRETS AGED A. WILL BE TOURING CONTINENT IN SEARCH OF LOVE STARTING TOMORROW. ALAS MY BROKEN HEART THAT LOST DEAREST CYNTHIA. CANNOT THINK OF ANOTHER ENGLISH GIRL AFTER HER. MY HEART. MY HEART. MY WOUNDED HEART. BUT WILL KEEP UPPER LIP STIFF THROUGH IT ALL. EVER SORROWFUL NEPHEW BERTRAM.

\--- --- ---

[](http://s246.photobucket.com/albums/gg114/night2dreams/?action=view&current=WeddingInvitation.jpg) [](http://s246.photobucket.com/albums/gg114/night2dreams/?action=view&current=WeddingResponse.jpg)

Dear Cynthia,

Dreadfully sorry about the mess on the response card. My mind must have been elsewhere when I put Jeeves’ name down, too. I mean, he’ll be with me, of course, but as my servant. As usual. Nothing out of the usual at all. Right. Just wanted to let you know, old thing. Well, see you in November and all the best! 

Toodle Pip,  
Bertie

P.S. I'm rather surprised your mother invited me, actually. Not that I'm complaining! Just seems jolly odd.

\--- --- ---

Dear Bertie,

It’s not a problem, and you had better bring Jeeves along. He’s the reason I get to marry Geo! I am terribly sorry that Mummy slapped you, but what a strange man you are. You weren’t supposed to say anything! I’m still never playing tennis with Stiffy again. She was just insufferable after you left Twing, going on and on about how it was all your fault ‘poor little Bartholomew’ was hurt. She tried ticking Geo off, but he wasn’t having that and Daddy wouldn’t hear of it, either. I suppose I should send her an invitation, too, but I’m still so angry at her. Imagine! Threatening to let me get married off to a horrible man just to get you to play along with her schemes.

I heard from Mummy, who heard from your aunt, that you’re touring the continent at the moment. Bring me back some chocolates from Switzerland as a wedding gift, and I should be ever so grateful.

Much Love,  
Cynthia

P.S. That was my doing, silly. I convinced Mummy that it would be rubbing things in your nose if you had to watch a 'real man' like Geo walk me down the aisle in your place.

\--- --- ---

Dear Bertie,

I suppose I can forgive you this one time, but know that I shall not be so kind the next. Poor Bartholomew was absolutely traumatized by that brute Chilcott attacking him. It’s just rot that Cynthia’s marrying that tyrant. He is a bit handsome, but she can’t expect that to make up for all of his other defects. My Harold may be clumsy, but at least he has character! In any case, I can’t believe that you could be so stupid. Well, actually I suppose I can. You should really get married, Bertie. You need someone to tell you off properly when you think up these atrocious schemes. Or at least ask Jeeves first! He could’ve given you something far more subtle and inventive.

Oh, by the way, when you return from the continent, I might have something that you could do for me. Harold’s doing well at his new vicarage, but I want to help him out. If you could just attack one of the more prominent members of his flock so that he could save them, that would be ever so helpful. We’ll work out a time and place for the scheme soon.

Regards,  
Stiffy

\--- --- ---

Dear Agatha,

I hope you’re doing well, old thing. Haven’t talked to you in a bit, but Jeeves and I are touring Switzerland at the moment – in search of a wedding gift for Cynthia and Chilcott – so I may have missed a telephone call or three. I received your new novel via the kind forwarding of my doorman, though. It was absolutely gripping! I can’t believe that twist you pulled out at the end! You tricky woman, you! Jeeves said he had his suspicions about the whatsit, but was ‘sufficiently surprised by the protagonist’s summation of events and the story’s resolution’. Between you and me, I think he was just as shocked as me. I was watching him when he was reading the last few chapters, and I saw the man’s eyebrows hopping up and down like mice on mattresses. He’s dreadfully fun to watch when he’s reading, you know? He’s so engrossed that he drops his guard. Never would have thought I’d get to see that side of him.

But, well, you know wandering eyes with missives and such. I shall be brevity itself, then, what? Jeeves has entered into a darts tournament sponsored by a group of flying enthusiasts down here that has some absolutely spiffing prizes by the look of it. One of them is a cruise to America where the winner and one guest will get to meet some beazel by the name of Amelia Earhart. Jeeves tells me she’s a famous American sort, zipping about at some-odd-thousand feet in her aeroplane. Didn’t think many beazels went in for that type of work, but there you are, and there’s certainly nothing you lovely ladies couldn’t do if you put your minds to it!

I hope you’re doing well and that... well, that things on the home front aren’t too unbearable. I really do wish there was something I could do for you, Agatha, old thing.

Toodle Pip,  
Bertram Wooster

\--- --- ---

Dear Bertie,

Oh, I do hope Mr. Jeeves wins the darts tournament! Meeting Amelia Earhart would be the most wonderful thing. I’ve read about her in a few magazines, and she seems to lead a terribly exciting and busy life. If you do meet her, there is something you can do for me: Write the story down and send it. All of it. I expect many juicy details, Bertram Wooster! I promise I’ll even take better care of it than you did of my manuscript (of course, I’m only teasing).

Things have been as one might expect for me. There’s the publication of my novel to keep me distracted, thankfully, and Archie’s trying. He’s stopped seeing... well, he’s trying. Thank you for your kind words and thoughts, but it’s my burden to bear.

Anyway, I hope to see you at Cynthia and George’s wedding. I’m so glad they could be together because of that mad scheme you and Mr. Jeeves worked out. (And I’m so very happy certain other persons could benefit from it, as well.)

Kindest Regards,  
Agatha Christie

P.S. You must send me a postcard soon, or I shall be very cross with you, indeed, Mr. Wooster!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to leave comments or questions. This was written quite a while ago, but I think I've sussed out all of the old typos. If not, let me know and I'll correct them!


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